


Songs In Our Hearts

by little_bean



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, I had to make some assumptions to make my timeline work, Other, Post Season 2 Finale, like just the month they are in, nothing major, spoilers?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-28
Updated: 2016-11-29
Packaged: 2018-04-11 14:14:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 36,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4438592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/little_bean/pseuds/little_bean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post Blood Must Have Blood. Just me thinking what could happen after Clarke leaves (and returns, duh) to Bellamy. Some drama, action, and of course ending in Bellarke with fluff mixed in. </p><p>Inspired by songs I that for some reason remind me of Bellarke :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ghosts

**Author's Note:**

> So I have, like any bellarke trash, a bellarke playlist. And when I was listening to one particular song, a fanfic idea sprang into my head that begged to be let out. So here it is. Might be shitty, as it's my first fanfic ever. I hope you enjoy!

_I keep_

_going to the river to pray_

_‘cuz I need_

_something that can wash out the pain_

_and at most_

_I’m sleeping all these demons away_

_but your ghost_

_the ghost of you it keeps me awake_

__

It all hurts.

Every step, every blink. Every breath.

The pain of guilt haunts her like the feeling of someone peering over your shoulder, and yet when you turn no one is there.

Bellamy’s voice hurts the most. On the walk back from Mount Weather, after Clarke pries about some bruise on his collarbone, Bellamy recalls his torture. And Clarke’s heart darkens even more. This - all of this - is her fault. And she can’t bring this shadow down on Camp Jaha with her.

So she leaves. She leaves her mother behind. Raven behind. Jasper behind.

Most importantly, Bellamy behind.

* * *

 

Clarke considers returning to the dropship. She even makes the many-miled journey to the fence that surrounds her former home. However, once she sees the looming tower of the dropship, a contraction in her left chest overtakes all of her emotions. Clarke stands, frozen, with one hand for support on a tree. A monstrous desire to return to the past swamps over her mind, even though her brain fights back with reason, whining on and on about how impossible that is, and how pointless it is to even consider.

Clarke looks to the entrance of the gates, and remembers what transpired inside. On Unity Day, when she and Bellamy shared jabs at each other, even shared smiles with each other.

How far that seems now. How far that smiling face seems now.

Glancing up, Clarke sees the orange and pink hue that speckles through the tree branches which marks the approaching dusk. A growling stomach reaches her ears from below, but Clarke ignores the incessant noise as she settles down next to the wooden fence. With a thump, her head hits the place she once called home, and she sleeps.

* * *

 

After Clarke woke, the need for food was almost unbearable. But how can she eat at a moment like this? So, with the mantra of mind over matter, Clarke started hiking.

It’s been about an hour so far, and she still has no idea where to she is heading. The general direction does lead back to Camp Jaha, but indirectly. Clarke feels as though Camp Jaha is a magnet, repelling her very life force in wave after wave, but some part of it wants to draw her in. So she skirts around it, keeping a clear 10 miles between them, so whenever she unconsciously turns to head straight for Camp Jaha, the has time to catch and scold herself.

_You cannot return. Not yet. Jasper needs time. Octavia needs time. They all need time away from me. Besides, no one wants me there._

Another voice, the devil inside, chastises _, What about Bellamy?_

Clarke returns, _What_ about _Bellamy?_

_He wants you. He wanted you to stay._

Clarke does not have a response, and instead directs her course the opposite direction of Camp Jaha. For another three hours, Clarke traverses the terrain, stopping to pick up some berries on the way. In the first fifteen minutes, she had found a good walking stick to pick up the pace to three miles per hour, by her estimate. Peering skyward, the sun is a bit below the zenith, and Clarke decides she has a good five more hours of hiking she can do before she needs to start to settle down.

But just another three hours in, and a waft of crisp air wafts into Clarke’s nose, making her stop. It is so refreshing, so clean, so pure, that it empties her mind for just a second. But that second felt like years; years of no responsibility, years of no guilt, years of no pain. It felt like the past - carefree, in the slimmest of terms, when all Clarke needed to worry about was if the hundred had enough food and keeping an eye on Bellamy.

Locating the source, Clarke finds a beautiful river, soft and sweet, rustling quietly in the ground, twisting around rocks and trees. A bridge wraps around the thickest area of the river, where it gains a few white water rapids. This bridge is the exact opposite of the one Raven blew up - it is completely made out of tree, and Clarke does not understand it.

It seems that some of the branches of the tree were directed across the river, twisted in intricate ways to create walls on the side of the main branch. It sinks into the ground on the other side.

Clarke did indeed read about some ancient tribes that spent decades manipulating the shapes of trees to fit their needs, however what Clarke does not understand is the fact that this bridge remains standing. Somehow, it was protected from the war. She decides not to question it, but to appreciate it.

Clearing a small space about fifty feet away from the river does not take long, and Clarke immediately starts picking large leaves and bundling them together in a lame attempt to make a mattress. Weighing it down with rocks, Clarke starts to scan the ground for the sharpest stone she can find. During the process, she spots a lone deer crooking its neck to take a nip of a bush. Silently, Clarke reaches for her gun and points it at the deer.

Finger on the trigger, Clarke bites her lip with such force she breaks the skin, but she ignores the trickle of blood that forms on her chin. Instead, she focuses on the deer.

Just as she puts some pressure on the trigger, the forest disappears. Instead, Clarke stands in the control room of Mount Weather, Bellamy and Monty gaping at her as she pulls the trigger and shoots Dante Wallace.

**BANG**

Clarke jumps back to reality, and the gun falls on the ground with an undramatic _plop_ as the deer skirts away.

Clarke looks at her shaking hands, turning them over and over with tears streaming down her face

In a crouch Clarke grabs her cheeks in her hands as her mouth forms into a gaping hole as she mutters to herself “ _Why? Why?_ ” over and over.

When she gets herself under control once more, it takes many more minutes to take hold of the gun. She digs a small hole next to her make-shift bed, and buries the gun. She can hear Bellamy in her head, tsking her.

_Clarke, how are you going to defend herself?_

Once again, Clarke doesn’t have an answer for him. Instead she finds a rock and begins to sharpen her walking stick.

* * *

 

That was four months ago.

Now, Clarke has set up a structure much like the ancient Jews used to have in what has called in Clarke’s religious history has as a _Sukkah_ , or a hut with three walls, and the roof covered in tree branches, with only a little sky visible through. She crafted the walls out of animals she killed or came across (only recently deceased, of course) and sewed them together to create ample insulation for her inhabitance. She dragged over huge tree branches and sometimes small fallen trees over for structure, and tho and behold - she has her small settlement.

Inside, she created sleeping pad out of animal pelts as well, stuffed with feathers plucked from some of Clarke’s dinners. On the left when one would walk in to her humble abode, one would see something like a weapons rack. Made out of shaped branches tied with string, several spears, a bow, and walking sticks rest on the rack.

Frost is starting to form on the ends of Clarke’s home with the approaching fall. Of course the redwood leaves to not give her any more insight to the season - but animal sighting are becoming less and less, and the few that she does see are hastily grabbing any food they can find before their hibernation.

When Clarke opens her eyes this morning, she is pleasantly surprised at the warm gust that greets her. A nice change from the typical chill dawn.

As usual, her appreciation of nature sends a shockwave of guilt through her body. That’s all that Cage Wallace wanted - for his people to enjoy this simple beauty too. And she forever denied that from them.

Shaking her head, Clarke gets up and heads to the river.

This has become somewhat of a morning routine in the past months. Clarke gets up, and goes to the river. She washes her face, hands, and feet. Then she crosses her feet under her legs on the shoreline, butt crushing the sand underneath, and thinks.

She can hear Bellamy’s voice in her head - _Geez, Clarke. Are you seriously praying? What god is going to answer you? We need to look after ourselves. No one else will._

But this is all she has. Her morning cleanse, and her morning prayer.

It’s all a failed attempt at washing all her demons away. Each morning she tries to start of new, fresh, to get ready to return to her people. Her brain berates her every day, claiming that she will never shed the sins she has committed. And Clarke agrees. But perhaps she will recover just enough, that she will be able to go to her real home.

But there is always one thing stopping her at the end of the day. As dusk nears, Clarke always gives the river a goodnight, rolling up her pants and standing in the water until her feet go numb. She embraces the numbness, and wishes that feeling to crawl up her spine, and enter her hippocampus to dampen the memories of her actions.

And like clockwork, he appears across the river, on the high bank where water crushes the rocks in a glorious fashion, perhaps like on the shores of Troy. Bellamy would be proud of her association.

And yet here, he glowers down at her, scolding.

“What are you doing, Clarke? You’re going to contract some sort of cold, or pneumonia. You know that.”

Clarke ignores him, as she always does. Why fight with a figment of her own imagination? Although, she reminds herself she has fought with him, repeatedly, over the course of these months.

And they resume that argument when she spills, “There must have been another way.”

On cue, Mind-Bellamy responds, “If there had been another way, Clarke, we would have found it.”

Clarke shakes her head. “No. We must not have been thinking straight. Maybe we could have negotiated.”

A snort. “We tried that. Didn’t work.”

“Well maybe we didn’t try hard enough! We should have stalled, at least! Jasper was about to kill Cage!”

“Like we could have known that. And we don’t know if Jasper would have succeeded.”

“And now we will never know.”

“But we do know that it would not have stopped anything, Clarke.”

_Clarke._

Another pang in her already aching chest. Ever since she left him, pleading, forgiving, he never once called her princess. When did that term form into one she longed to hear from his lips? And when did Bellamy stop using it as an insult, but a casual nickname?

Today, that fact tears her heart in two. All the tears she has bottled up in obduration push themselves out.

Forgetting all pretense, Clarke kneels in the water, soaking her underwear and abdomen, and wails out loud.

“Why did you let me do it, Bellamy?!”

The apparition speaks up once more. “Let you do what, Clarke? We both made a decision we had to make. I didn’t let you do anything.”

“No, you idiot!” Clarke puts her face in her hands. “You let me pull the trigger with you - together!”

With that, she runs her hand across the water in an arc in front of her, causing water to charge up and away from her. When the water settles, Bellamy has disappeared from the cliff face.

Ignoring her shivers, Clarke whimpers into her hands. “Why? Why did I let you?”

* * *

 

The first morning had been worse at the river. Clarke had arisen from her pile of leaves, and walked down the stream. It changed from a eerily calm river to one of rampaging white caps, full of sharp, rising rocks and splashes of water.

Clarke thought it mimicked her personal transition of the ground perfectly. From innocent, to guilty. From pure, to tumultuous.

And walking back up to her campsite, she tried for the first time to rationalize what she had done just a couple days ago.

_So many… all the kids, the innocents, and the protectors._

Her hands betrayed her first, when they started trembling. The movement triggered something in Clarke -

_Cold, soft plastic wrapped around a metal handle. Her bicep contracts as she readies herself for the decision. Then a warm feeling spreads through the top of her hand._

_Bellamy._

“No!” She yelled, slamming her hand against a redwood. She raised them to her face, and they still trembled.

“Stop! Go away!” she spat, proceeding to ram bark into her skin. She didn’t register any pain until a stark red appeared against her pale forearm. Countless scratches speckled across her hands, slowly seeping blood.

But she shed no tears. Clarke Griffin deserved no tears. Instead she padded to the river, and rinsed her palms. Then she sat down to count the scratches. She decided to add more if they didn’t add up to the Mountain Men lost.

* * *

 

Now six months have passed.

In the dead of night, Clarke lays on her stomach as she traces the river in the dirt as she glances at the trees, now covered in the sheer white of snow. Her first snow. All the Sky People’s first snow.

She should be there with them, enjoying the spectacularity that is nature. Instead, she lets the twisting weight of responsibility practically kill her. The irony that she, Clarke, should lie sleepless at night, while hundreds lie in their forever slumber under dim lights, forces a silent and humorless laugh from her body.

Granted, her conscious has slowly been recovering. She has now agreed that Cage was irrational - diplomacy was the last thing on his mind as she threatened his father’s life. And she now relented that Cage had… inspired so many people, that even with his death, others would want to kill her friends for the chance of breathing real air.

Turning to her back, Clarke peeks her head out from under her roof to gaze at the spotted sky, countless stars gazing back at her blue eyes.

Even with those acceptances, Clarke cannot get passed the innocents that died. The protectors of the delinquents. Especially Maya.

Clarke tries to rationalize that she did indeed claim to wish to die before letting Cage get his hands on Jasper and the others - but that did not mean Clarke was allowed to cross her off with one pull of a lever.

Closing her eyes, and taking deep breaths in and out through her nose, Clarke starts listing off those she saved with her decision. Harper, Miller, Monty… until she drifts away.

Maybe some day she will indeed sleep all her demons away. But not tonight.

 

***         *          ***

 

The next week, when Clarke is standing in the river counting the marks on near her elbow, she hears a piercing yell permeate through the forest.

“ _ **FUCK!**_ ”

The curse is followed by a large string of expletives, and one other voice exclaiming in surprise.

Clarke immediately rushes from out of the water, not minding her wet feet as she slips her disgusting shoes back on. She twists her hair in a bun, and for camouflage smothers mud all over her face and arms.

As she starts scuttling up a tree, she hears a frenzied voice question -

“Miller, what happened?”

And she freezes. Because despite the time, she would recognize Monty Green’s voice anywhere. She settles on a branch large enough to support her weight.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Miller repeats. “A just fucking fell over a tripwire into thousands of little thorns, but no big deal. _Geez_ this hurts like crazy!” Clarke hears some rustling, probably Monty helping Miller up.

Oops. Clarke bites her bottom lip. Miller walked into one of her protection barriers she put up months ago - in all honesty, she had completely forgotten all about them.

“It’s okay, Nathan. But we’ll need to pull those out and check for infection, and if necessary create a flower-full concoction if there is infection.”

Clarke nods, partially surprised at the calm tone of Monty’s voice. He has grown since she last saw him, after…  after he had made her genocide possible.

“You hear that? A river must be near by. Perfect, as we’ll need to wash out your injury. But let’s be careful of more traps. You keep a sharp eye - you are the thief in the group.”

They both chuckle as Clarke’s body freezes. _Shit_. They are heading straight to her encampment. But action all but leaves her body, and she remains clutching her tree branch as she sees the two walk (in Miller’s case, limp, as she diagnoses him with an ankle sprain) to the river.

They don’t stop when they pass her hut - but she notices Monty’s face track the home until he sees the front, which faces the river. He nods to himself, and announces, “It’s empty. Not abandoned, if the weapons are any clue, but perhaps the person is out for the day, or at least a while hunting.”

“Great,” Miller grimaces, as Monty’s arm around his shoulders slides away when they sit at the riverbank. “Now please help, Monty.”

“Of course!” Monty pats Miller’s head as he reaches for a handkerchief from his pocket. He dips it into the river, then begins cleaning Miller’s arms, which are covered in many trickles of blood from the thorns.

Clarke lets them at it for a while, willing Monty to be efficient and get them the hell away from her. Because Monty’s presence shocked a realization through her that she needs to think about for many hours.

Clarke will never be free of the guilt that courses through her veins every day and every night. But she had known that when she first had placed her hand on the lever. She had prepared herself for the worst outcome, and came to peace with the burden she was placing on herself.

But then Bellamy had placed his hands on his, in turn placing some of that burden on him. They had shared eye contact, and Clarke hadn’t argued.

And that’s why Clarke hates herself every day. Because she had allowed Bellamy Blake to relieve her of some of the burden, and she had allowed him to take some, when he already had so much responsibility to undertake. And she thinks that’s the real reason why she left - she was offering Bellamy a chance to forget his part in the genocide, to fully blame her for the actions at Mount Weather. The Delinquents still needed a leader -Bellamy- not to hate, or else the people of the Ark and Camp Jaha were sure to take advantage of them. So Clarke forced Bellamy in the position of leader, while Clarke submitted herself for the position of the hated sinner.

Because she will never forgive herself for letting Bellamy pull the handle with her. So the least she can do is take blame, and run away, forever out of his mind. She couldn't stick around, to constantly remind him of what they had done together. Even if he had said please.

"Shit, Nathan! This isn't just a thorn puncture wound - you must have skid when you fell. This wound is at least three inches long! And by the look of the bleeding... Not too deep, but enough for stitches. I don't have a needle, but I guess we can makeshift..." Monty drops off, and Clarke almost bursts out laughing when Miller faints. Isn't this the kid that strangled a Mountain Men to death?

"God, Nathan. Such a baby." Monty smiles at Miller, laughing quietly to himself as he rests Miller in a more comfortable position.

That's when Clarke makes a decision. She can't just let Monty attempt to sew up Miller with a stick. No matter how smart he is, he won't be able to effectively stitch up a cut that size like that. Besides, her face _is_ covered in mud. Plus, with the cold weather, Clarke discarded her worn, think cloths for warmer furs she created herself. The recognition percentage, she tells herself, is low. So she slowly, without a sound, scoots her butt from the branch to hang with her arms, then drops to the ground with a solid _thump_.

To Clarke's delight, Monty practically jumps out of the water, where he rinses out the bloody rag. He turns, dramatically slow, eyes wide in terror as he takes in Clarke's figure.

"Oh! H-hello! I'm sorry - we didn't think anyone was here, and my friend is hurt... Please, we will be out of your home in just a few."

Clarke doesn't say a word - she doesn't trust herself to. Instead she keeps a steady gaze at the boy, wrapped in layers upon layers of furs, shivering in the river. She then nods, and walks to her hut.

"Okayyyy. Good talk, then," Monty calls after her, a suspicious tone to his voice.

Clarke exits her home as Monty kneels by Miller as he wraps the cold, wet rag around Miller's forearm. She almost gasps in excitement when he kisses Miller's forehead, but shakes off the development quickly.

Monty's head turns slightly as he hears her approach, but he does not acknowledge her at all.

"No."

Clarke tries to force her voice deeper than it's normal tone, but with lack of frequent use she isn't sure what is normal anymore. And besides, when she does talk, it's usually more of a scream - high pitched ones at that.

Miller stirs a bit, groaning under Monty's work.

"Uh, what?" Monty inquires.  

"No. Don't use that wet rag. Take it off."

"It's better than a dry one - the natural regeneration of the body occurs in a moist environment-"

"I know," Clarke cuts him off, _since I taught you that_. "I have better ones. This river is dirty - I have clean water."

"Really?" Monty rises from his crouch. "May I see?" And without a reply, he starts heading to Clarke's hut.

"Uh- wait," Clarke begins, but to no avail. Monty seems to have grown the past months, and his strides overtake hers with great ease as Clarke attempts to catch up with him.

"Wow, these are great!" Monty says from within the hut. "I'm assuming they are yours?"

"Yes," Clarke mutters, scuffing her foot in the dirt to erase the pictures Monty was referring to. "My water is over here," she says, motioning out of the hut.

"This is a pretty good setup you have here," Monty says, pivoting on his heels to see the whole interior. "Very neat, very organized." He touches one of Clarke's swords - she found it on the ground next to a disfigured body. She figured it was a lone reaper that never got help. "How long have you kept residence in this home?"

"Are you just going to let your friend bleed?" Clarke asks, ignoring Monty's statement. She proceeds to exit and turn to the right to find her deerskin pouch. It resides in a cube-like creation made out of, you guessed it, tree branches tied together. She has been collecting snow pacts from trees to get clean, fresh water when it melts. She has some rags  she draped on the side of the branches. Grabbing one, and after she inspects it, she drowns it in water and turns back around to face Monty who is catching up to her. She stalks past him, barely acknowledging his existence and strides toward Miller, who after gazing at his arm fainted once more.

She kneels next to him, and starts wiping away the blood that escaped. She wraps it around his forearm and starts to create a makeshift bandage. Then from her pocket she gets out a pouch, unties the knot, and pulls out a needle and some thread. Wordlessly, she threads the needle. Then she undoes her bandage to start on Miller.

"A queasy fellow, this one," she comments in her low voice.

"Not usually, actually," Monty replies hesitantly. "We've been through a lot, but I guess he's never had to deal with a personal injury."

Clarke hums an understanding, continuing her work. The whole situation stresses her out, and she ends up wiping away some sweat on her upper lip as she completes the stitching. After the wound is closed, she gets out a knife (one she stumbled upon stuck in a tree a couple miles out - probably from a forgotten feud) and cuts the thread. She then wraps it again with her wet rag.

"There. He'll be better soon," Clarke says as she rises from Miller.

Monty has his head tilted as he looks at her, a weird, small, distant smile on his face as he inspects her face. And with all the earnesty in the world he thanks her.

Clarke nods. "Of course," she replies roughly, and walks back to her hut. She sits cross-legged at the entrance and watched the pair. It's all she can do to not get up and sprint at them, capturing them in a joyful hug, with possibly some tears.

Miller reawakens from fainting when he woke up and saw someone stitching his arm. "Is it over?"

Monty laughs. "Yeah, it is. C'mon - we better keep going. Don't want to overuse this kind person's hospitality."

Miller grunts in what must be an agreement, taking Monty's outstretched arm. He rises, and once he puts pressure on his he grimaces. The sprained ankle, Clarke remembers.

"You good?" Monty asks, a furrow in his brow. He immediately gives an arm to help support Miller, as his other hand stays on Miller's chest protectively.

"Yeah. I'll be slow, but I'm fine." In demonstration he starts walking the way they came from, removing himself from Monty. Monty visibly releases a sigh of relief as he starts to follow Miller. They walk for a few seconds, then Clarke sees Monty turn away, yelling behind him, "One second, Miller - I forgot something. You keep going, I'm sure I can catch up."

Miller takes the obvious bait, and sticks his tongue out at Monty as he continues on. Monty jogs back to the river, pretends to pick something up, then casually walks close to where Clarke sits.

"We all miss you, and hope you come back," he whispers, almost so silent Clarke barely picked it up.

She starts, feeling bested at some game. But she tries to keep up the charade. "What?"

Now Monty turns to start backpedalling to Miller, pointing to his left upper lip. "Birthmarks don't lie.” He almost turns back around, then continues - "I know why you needed to go. But if you've found what you've been looking for out here, we would all welcome you home. Bellamy especially." Clarke looks down when at the mention of Bellamy's name, and with that Monty gives a last nod to Clarke. He turns back around and right when he begins a jog-

"Thank you," Clarke says, in a way that only travels to Monty's ear. He turns his head, smiles, and runs to catch up to Miller. They greet each other with a kiss, and Miller relents to receive help from Monty. Their heads bend towards one another in deep conversation, and they disappear in the woods.

Clarke keeps gazing at the spot she lost track of their bodies, mind distant from body.


	2. Back Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Monty struggles with Jasper's resentment while also trying to keep a close eye on Bellamy for Clarke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter two, here's Monty's POV! (hey that rhymes). What would it be like without your best friend? For me it would be horrible.

_How can you see_

_into my eyes_

_like open doors_

_Leading you down_

_into my core_

_where I’ve become so numb_

_without a soul_

_my spirit’s sleeping somewhere cold_

_until you find it and lead it_

_back home_

 

_Wake me up inside_

_Save me from the dark_

_Before I’ve come undone_

_Save me from_

_the nothing_

_I’ve become_

 

Inside, Monty felt hollow.

Scratch that, he didn’t feel anything.

And no, it’s not actually for the reason one would think. Yes, he assisted Clarke in stopping Cage Wallace, and thus the genocide of the Mountain Men, but they were killing his friends. They had killed countless Grounders. His morale wasn’t low because of that.

It was because his partner in crime, his best friend, his _family_ , Jasper Jordan, hated him.

Once Jasper found out Monty’s part in the killing, he remained in a state of disbelief. He ran to Monty, and after hugging him, held him at an arms-length.

"You didn’t really, right? Please tell me you didn’t.”

The smile that had erupted on Monty’s face -the first in weeks- dropped off just as quickly as it had appeared.

“Jasper…” he had no idea what to say to him. Yes, I helped to kill your almost-girlfriend?

Jasper then released his hold on Monty’s shoulders, as if they were lava. His eyes held a different disbelief - one of betrayal and loss. He shook his head, tears springing into his eyes. “Monty!...” then his eyes changed. The betrayal drained, and left cold, dark eyes until they fired up again with a deep hate and disgust. “How could you. You know I cared about her, and yet you sided with _Clarke_.”

Monty pleaded with Jasper, saying he didn’t side with anyone - he did what he needed to do to save his friends. “I saved you Jasper! It’s what Maya would have wanted!”

The coldness returned to the flaming eyes as Jasper spat, “You have no right to decide what Maya would have wanted.” He then turned away, and that was the last they spoke throughout the entire journey to Camp Jaha.

Monty remained silent for the rest of the walk. He stayed in his head, as he used to do before Jasper tumbled into his life. He thought about the Mountain Men, and their horrible use of Grounder blood.

What kind of worth did a life have, if it relied on the lives of others? What kind of worth did a life have if you were destined to only feel pain, if you did not inflict pain on others? Monty agreed with his statement from when Maya had shown him and Jasper the cages upon cages of Grounders. It was an inhumane life, and they hadn’t deserved to live.

Confirming his beliefs, Monty now turns his attention to the only two that may possibly understand his isolation - Bellamy and Clarke. They are in the front of the group, to the side, leading with Kane and Abby Griffin. They huddle close together, heads angled toward each other, whispering their secrets. Monty witnesses Clarke once touch Bellamy’s collarbone, and when Bellamy visibly winces, she aggressively pushes him until his body sags and he releases some secret.

After that, Clarke distances herself by a few feet from Bellamy, until he comes close to her and slips an arm around her waist. Clarke’s whole stiff demeanor changes, and she leans onto her co-leader.

Monty wishes he had someone to lean on right now.

Once they get back to Camp Jaha, him, Clarke, and Bellamy linger until everyone is safely inside. Hugging his fatigued body, he turns to look at Bellamy and Clarke. He makes eye contact with Clarke, and an understanding shoots through his body. He nods, then retreats inside the camp.

He knows she is going to leave. She has had so much on her shoulders these past months, and with this last act she tells everyone she has had enough and needs time. Monty respects that decision - but he still wishes she would stay. It won’t feel right without her.

 

* * *

The next couple of days are rough.

Abby has gone berserk, yelling Bellamy whenever chance permits for letting her daughter wander into the forest alone.

“Did she even say when she was coming back?!” Is the most common question she asks Bellamy. Every time, he responds with a small shake of the head, and he walks away without a dismissal.

Raven has gone up to Bellamy repeatedly, poking him in the chest with such force Bellamy takes a step back. What she says to him slowly changed from one of interrogation to exacerbation.

“Clarke has gone, and isn’t coming back anytime soon. You need to accept that. We all need to accept that. So get back to work, so when she does return, which she will, everything isn’t in shambles. Chop-chop, Blake!”

Octavia stayed by her brother’s side ever since they returned. Until they got into that big fight two weeks later, that everyone within a half-mile radius could probably hear.

"She let that missile land on TonDC, she sent you into that fucking mountain to die, don't you fucking say she has any right to have my sympathy, much less _forgiveness_!"

"O, calm down," Bellamy had tried to pacify her. His eyes had grown dark circles under them, and his posture slouched. "At least understand her position."

"I understand perfectly well! She murdered everyone in that damn mountain, then ran away! Like a fucking child that can't face its fears!"

"She is a child, Octavia," Bellamy said, as he slouched even more with the mention of the mountain.

"Well she made a decision, and should own up to it! Yeah, she should feel guilty as hell. But that doesn't mean any of us should feel _gratitude_ towards her. If anything, we should look down on her for not blinking an eye at the mass genocide."

Bellamy stared hard at the ground, and when he responded, his voice was dangerously low. "It wasn't with no blink of an eye. She desperately wanted to have another option. But there wasn't any."

"Like there wasn't any other option into sending you in there? Like hell there was! I won't believe it for a second!"

Bellamy ran a hand over his face. "O..." and Monty knew he was about to confess to his part in the decision. But Monty couldn't allow that - he prepared to intervene, to keep Bellamy's secret. He couldn't risk Bellamy being shunned - he was the only one Kane listened to as the representative of the Delinquents, and if he scarred his image, they would be cast away once more.

But Octavia didn't let him start. "I cannot fucking believe you! You aren't even a bit angry with her, and you can't stand talking to me right now! Well, you should be glad she's gone right now, because if she was here, I would fucking kill her!" With that she pushed Bellamy away from her, and stormed into her tent. She then thrust aside on of the flaps, and yelled at Bellamy, "Don't you ever take her side over mine again, or you'll wish you had run away too!" She disappeared inside the tent once more.

Monty thinks about that conversation again. Ever since then, Bellamy's smile had seemed more and more forced to the youngest of the delinquents, even when he told them Greek and Roman myths. His debates with Kane were less heated with assurance then they were before, and his stride was slower. Monty could see the guilt eating away at him too. But he had never been close to Bellamy, and now has no idea how to approach the big man and have a heart-to-heart with him.

Monty has been the same. He remains detached from the rest of the residents of Camp Jaha, even the delinquents. Conversation rarely comes to him, although kind Harper has sat silently with him during meals frequently. But words fail him, as darkness seems to be slowly taking over his body from Jasper's cold shoulder.

He's helped Raven sometimes with whatever electrical assistance she's needed. But it's no substitute to tinkering with Jasper. And besides, even with Raven's best efforts, she usually forgets Monty in her workshop once Wick steps through the doors.

Sighing, Monty makes his way to the campfire and took his distant, segregated spot from the rest of the campfire-goers. Closing his eyes, he takes in the cold air as dusk approaches. His spirit hasn't returned to him since his last talk with Jasper - he concludes it's sleeping somewhere cold. His soul has become so numb without his second half. He hasn't even felt the need to blow anything up, much less make any of his special moonshine, as much as he wants to drink it every hour. The concoction wouldn't be the same without Jasper.

Opening up his watery eyes, Monty finds himself once again searching for Bellamy's presence. He spies him with Miller, probably discussing some plan for a hunting trip.

_Miller!_

He's perfect. They were buddies together on the Ark - Miller prying into Bellamy's darkest thoughts wouldn't be weird. And Bellamy could use someone to confide in, because Monty can't offer up himself.

After the two separate, Monty miraculously catches Miller’s eye, and waves at him. Miller offers a small smile, walking over. He lets out a loud groan as he sits on the log next to Monty, and slaps him on the back.

“Whattup, dude?”

Monty offers a single-shouldered shrug in response, suddenly embarrassed.

Miller coughs, messing with the hem of his beanie, pulling it farther over his eyebrows.

Monty sighs, and begins to try to nudge Miller in the right direction. “Bellamy’s seems down, recently, huh?”

Miller glances at Monty, then he gazes in empty space. “Yeah. I’ve noticed that too.” Some silence passes, and before Monty can tell him to have a ‘bro-talk’ or whatever with Bellamy, Miller says, “but he’s not the only one.”

Monty starts. “Huh? What do you mean?”

Miller rolls his eyes to stare pointedly at Monty, who blushes deeply.

Monty humphs, and looks to the ground at his scuffing feet. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Oh, c’mon, Monty. I’d like to say I know you pretty well. The way you acted in and before Mount Weather is nothing like you are acting now. What’s going on?”

“Well, you know that Clarke pulled some lever to kill the Mountain Men… who do you think enabled that function?” Monty lies.

“Monty. I know that’s not the reason. In the bunkers you stated your views very well. What’s. Going. On.”

Monty stands aggressively, spinning to face Miller. “God, Miller, maybe I just want some time to myself! I wanted you to have a heart-to-heart with Bellamy about the Mountain Men, not me!” Feeling his eyes tearing up, Monty turns on his heel and runs to the tent that him and Jasper were supposed to share when they returned. He sits on his bed, staring at Jasper’s section of the tent (yes, he still kept an area clean for him). Then he finally lets himself cry silently for his friend’s loss.

Minutes, an hour passes, Monty has no idea. But eventually, he hears a soft, “Knock knock?” coming from outside the tent. Monty freezes, then slumps as he recognizes the voice not to be Jaspers. So much for wishful thinking.

Even without a response, the person enters the tent. It’s Miller. He seems surprised that Monty had actually been crying, and his face contorts into one of sorrow at the sight.

“Monty, geez, I didn’t mean to… um, I’m sorry.”

Monty laughs, but it’s empty. “You don’t have anything to be sorry for, Miller. It’s my fault I’m crying. It’s my fault I’ve been alone this past month. It’s my fault…” and he gazes at the empty section of the tent.

Miller sits himself down next to Monty. “Hey.” He pats Monty’s shoulder. “Jasper will get over it. It may take a while, but do you really think he will sacrifice a friendship of years over a relationship of a couple of days? It’s not his style. He will forgive you Monty. He just needs time to realize you and Clarke had no choice.”

Monty nods, the tears still sliding silently down his face. But his nose no longer feels runny. “Thanks, Miller.” He puts his hand on Miller’s knee.

Miller nods back. “Besides, you gotta give that kid some props. He could’a shagged that chick - it would have taken me three times as long to make a move!” he laughs.

Monty chuckles along, but it doesn’t feel as earnest as he would want it. He removes his hand from Miller, suddenly feeling like he is crossing some boundary.

“Look… what I was saying about Bellamy wasn’t a lie. He needs someone to talk to as well,” Monty says.

“You mean about Clarke leaving? Trust me, I’ve tried. Whenever her name is mentioned, his whole demeanor changes, for the worse. But he won’t discuss her anymore, not after the talk with Octavia.”

“No, it’s not that… well I guess it sorta is. But… it’s not my place to tell this secret, but Bellamy needs to be shocked into talking into someone.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Well, Bellamy used to have a pretty argumentative streak. That’s when he got the most emotional, and most motivational. I think if you can spark an argument out of him, you will actually get him to talk to you. And a way to really shock him would be you to bring up something you would have no possible way of knowing.”

“Monty, you sly bastard,” Miller says, but instead of a joking tone, it seems to be one of awe and pride.

Monty blushes, but the red disappears when he knows what secret he is about to tell. “Miller… Clarke didn’t pull the lever alone. She was about to, but when he hesitated, Bellamy put his hand on hers and they pulled the lever together.”

Both of them had stopped breathing. Miller’s hand on Monty’s shoulder tightened its grip so Monty winces slightly in the pain, but Miller does not seem to notice.

Eventually, Miller says, “Wow. Okay, wow.” The hand on Monty’s shoulder releases to rub Miller’s face, and Monty relaxes his muscles he didn’t know where contracted. “Okay. I didn’t expect that. But it makes perfect sense, especially with what Octavia said. Bellamy probably wanted to tell her, but know is afraid of her hating him as much as she hates Clarke. Jesus, he really needs to confide in someone. Yeah, I’ll definitely approach him about this.”

Monty nods, a small relieved smile on his face. “Thanks, Miller.”

Miller turns his head, to look at Monty full force for the first time in their discussion. Monty finds his breath stop once more, and a blush creeping up his back. Mouth slightly open, he stares dumbly at Miller.

“No, thank you Monty. I think you’ve saved Bellamy from self-destruction.” Miller makes a move to get up, hesitates, then slaps an arm over Monty’s shoulders. He shakes the arm, then leaves it there for a while longer. “You did good, Monty,” he says in a raspy tone, then clears his throat. “Well, I gotta go. Bellamy and I are heading off on a hunting trip early in the morning. But it’s a three day excursion - so plenty of time to chat with the fellow. See ya, Monty.” He winks at Monty, then with a nod exits the tent.

Monty says in the quietest tone, “See you, Miller."

 

* * *

 

Needless to say, Monty is a nervous wreck the next three days. He has no idea what Bellamy’s reaction is going to be - angry at Monty for spilling the secret, more closed off than before, or deadly silent?

On the third day, Monty unnaturally takes a guard shift at the gates to look out for the pair’s return. The rifle over his shoulder feels heavy and distant. He shifts his weight from foot to foot, hip to hip, until the sun passes the meridian. After a lunch and pee break, he returns despite the Sergeant's protests. She gives a scoff at his insistence to help, and walks away muttering something about obsessive children.

Monty doesn’t really like the Sergeant. She feels herself above the Delinquents -everyone can perceive that- but the way that she treats them as idiots sometimes irks Monty to his core. He bets - nay, knows - his IQ is much greater than hers. If only he wasn’t a quiet mess.

A laugh in the distant catches Monty’s ear. He pushes his protective goggles up the bridge of his nose, and straightens his back as he asks Greg what the noise was.

“Eh, just two men approaching. Miller and Bellamy, by the looks of it,” the forty-year-old responds. He goes back to chewing some grass in his mouth, staring at the sky absent-mindedly.

Monty goes straight to the latch, unlocking it for the two. Miller and Bellamy walk back together, indeed, about a foot away from each other. However, Bellamy genuinely looks happy, even content, with Miller as he laughs that Bellamy laugh that all the Delinquents once knew. Monty raises to his toes in excitement of his own, pleased that his plan seemingly worked.

The gate opens for the two, and they pass Monty without any glance. Monty is full of conflicted feelings - happy that the two seem so happy themselves their surroundings are meaningless, and deflated because he isn’t important enough for the two of them to be noticed. He knows if he were Octavia or Clarke they would have done at least a double take.

He takes the shift the next day, and the next, until a week passes with Monty filling the guard position nonstop. It gives him something to do, besides tinkering with some of Raven’s playthings. Besides, sometimes that stuff is downright _disturbing_.

Back from his guard shift two weeks in, Monty returns from one of his pee breaks. He finds a different guard from the one from this morning standing at the fence.

“Hey Monty,” the guard says, offering a smile from under his beanie.

“Miller?” Monty asks.

“Yup. I’ve been meaning to talk to you, but never seemed to be able to find you. Talked to some people - and my dad said he noticed you taking up several guard shifts. So I offered to take up one.”

“How is your father?” Monty blurts before he can restrain himself. He punches himself inside - he usually is so careful with conversation, but not around Miller, he finds. He tries to repair the almost non-sequitur. “I mean, I know you guys were not on the best of terms before we were dropped on Earth. How are you two holding up?”

Miller offers Monty a crooked smile. “You know,” he says, “you are actually the first one to ask me that. Thank you.” Monty gives a hesitant smile back. “It’s been rough,” Miller admits, “but after the whole ordeal at Mount Weather, any hash-outs we were building up inside us dissipated. The first time I got to talk to my dad alone was after his bone marrow was extracted - we were both wiped out, and when I saw my dad tearing up…” Miller blinks roughly and looks away, and Monty lifts an arm to pat his upper arm. “Well, I’m not one for hugs, but we embraced. And it was, I’ll admit, one of the best feeling in the world.”

Monty bites his bottom lip, nodding along with the memory. Miller glances at Monty and his eyes grow wide. “Oh, shit… Monty, I’m sorry.”

Monty glances at Miller now, confusion in his eyes. “Why do you keep apologizing?”

“Well, I know you haven’t really found out about the status of your parents, with the rescue parties stalled for the moment,” Miller explains.

Monty shakes his head. “Dude, it’s fine. I asked you about your father, remember? I wanted to know.”

Miller smiles. “Yeah.” A pause. “Anyway, about Bellamy.”

“Yeah? How did he take it?”

“Not great. He did the whole freeze-turnaround thing that is terrifying when he does it. But after he tried to persuade me otherwise, he broke down (as much as Bellamy would, anyway) and confided every time Clarke’s name is mentioned his insides hurt. He thinks it is somehow his fault she left. I told him she was probably trying to protect herself and him, but he wouldn’t hear it for a while. But I think he’ll be a lot better now.”

“That’s great.”

“Yeah.”

Another pause.

Miller breaks the silence. “I know you may not want to talk about it, but you have to.”

Monty sighs. “I know. But it… I don’t feel anything.”

Miller steps in front of Monty’s averted gaze, forcing eye contact. Monty feels exposed - and he wonders to himself what Miller is seeing as he gazes purposefully into Monty. His feels as though his eyes are open doors to Miller - as if they lead him down into his core, which has become so numb.

“When you want to talk about it, Monty, just come up to me. Anytime. Now, let’s end this shift.” Monty agrees, suddenly exhausted, and they retire to their tents.

 

* * *

The next day, Monty cancels his guard shift, and instead takes an excursion out of the Camp to think to himself. After ten minutes of walking he finds a log to sit on and contemplate.

After a couple of hours, he returns and heads straight for Miller at about midday. He finds him in his tent, picking lint off his beanie. He looks up at Monty’s entrance, and smiles. “Hey.”

Monty smiles shyly back, and whispers, “Wanna talk?” Miller’s smile widens, and he nods, offering a quiet “Of course.”

They both sit on the floor, and Monty spills his heart out.

He talks about how Jasper and his friendship has suffered before - even when they first reached the ground, and Jasper had gained a small Napolean Complex. But they had gotten over that, and now a couple of months have passed and whenever Monty approaches Jasper, Jasper either walks away immediately or he glares, then storms away. Not a word has been exchanged between the two, besides Monty’s efforts which consisted of the word “Hey,” and nothing else.

“I’ve known him for as long as I can remember,” Monty says. “My first memory is _of_ Jasper. And now the thought of me makes his blood boil. I feel broken without him, Miller. I’m becoming nothing without him.”

They stay silent for a while after that declaration.

Then Miller takes Monty’s hands is his, and strikes Monty with that stare once more.

“I think,” he says, “we just need to wake up something inside you.”

Monty raises an eyebrow. “And how, per say, would we do that?”

Miller thinks for moment, making a show of that act by putting a ridiculous expression on his face that makes Monty laugh.

“I think that Camp Jaha could use a nursery. You know, to make life more interesting. And who would be better suited for that than our one and only Monty Green?”

Monty’s mind is blank for a moment before it clicks. “You think we should make a greenhouse? To grow _flowers_?”

Miller shrugs, still holding Monty’s hands. “Sure, why not?”

Monty starts to nod. “Yeah. I like that idea.” He looks at Miller, and their hands. Miller continues smiling at Monty, pleased his idea was accepted. “Will you help me?"

Miller stands, suddenly stoic. He lifts Monty with him, their hands still entwined. “I thought you would never ask. Let’s get started now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MNTY <3  
> Idk if anyone is OOC, it's so hard for me to tell.
> 
> Anyway... what do you guys think so far? Please let me know! I would really appreciate it.
> 
> cry with me on tumblr: beans-shadow.tumblr.com


	3. Acceptance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will Bellamy slide back into his old habits, or remain strong for Clarke?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for waiting! Here's what we all have been waiting for... Bellamy's POV!

_Oh maybe I just wasn’t good enough_

_to blow your mind._

_You know I’ve tried_

_Them silver lines they cut like blades of glass_

_Not worth the blood_

_we’ve shed for love_

_So give it up, stop beating,_

_hearts have gone cold_

 

_We just keep on digging._

_Find us something better_

_for the next time._

Shoving tree after tree, branch after branch away from his body, Bellamy growls at the plants surrounding him. Eventually, one slaps him right in the face, creating a scratch just deep enough to muster up some blood from his cheekbone.

“Son of a bitch!” he swears, wiping his face with his shoulder.

“You okay back there?” Miller yells from up ahead, standing confidently on a fallen tree.

Bellamy grunts out a reply, not sure what the meaning behind the inflection really is. Miller seems to accept it, as he continues on to whatever hunting sight he wishes to show Bellamy.

“Miller, we have been traveling for hours now. Are we even near your damned hunting spot yet?”

“Calm down, chief, we are almost there.”

Silence falls again as Bellamy retreats into his mind to ignore the pain on his cheek, feet, and heart.

His heart fails him, as every pound of his blood cuts him like blades of glass. It pours through his body, flowing in cold veins and arteries, freezing the rest of his body. Sometimes he wishes his heart would give it up and stop beating, but he knows that’s not what Clarke would have wanted.

Bellamy doesn’t know how many more minutes -nay, hours- have passed when Miller yells that they made it.

“Finally,” Bellamy grumbles. He stands next to Miller and dumps his backpack on the ground. His shoulders ache from the weight, but the relief he gets from removing the sack is almost worth the pain.

Finding a stump, Bellamy grunts again as he squats to sit. He plays a tune with his fingers as he taps his kneecaps, eyes shifting to gain knowledge of the surroundings Miller brought him to. Miller _said_ it was a new hunting location, but…

“Wait. I know this place,” Bellamy says, fingers freezing on his knees. He makes direct eye contact with Miller, accusing him. “This place is known for _not_ having any game. It’s been overused, thus the animals avoid it. Why did you really bring me here, Miller?”

Miller signs, his body drooping with the breath. “Damn. Still sharp, even when you look soft.” Bellamy doesn’t ask for an explanation of that comment at the moment, but stores it for a later fight. “Look, Bellamy, we need to talk. And I thought we should do it in an isolated zone.”

Bellamy rises from the stump, gathering his whole height. He can see Clarke in his mind’s eye, laughing about how he looks like some exotic bird fluffing out its feathers, but he shakes that thought from his mind, trying to seem intimidating. “You wanted to talk to me, or murder me? Because you could have talked to me back at Camp Jaha - no one knows where we are here. The perfect crime. I thought we had passed that part of our lives,” Bellamy chides, walking in a circle around Miller.

Miller looks at Bellamy in a disbelieving way, eyebrows arched as if he was looking at a baby that just barfed on itself. “Seriously, Bellamy? Look at you, circling me like an animal stalking its prey. This is the _old_ you manifesting itself once more. An argument was your old solution - ever since we touched ground you started growing to one considers diplomacy and negotiation. And that’s disappearing, and I think we all know why. We need to discuss Clarke.”

Bellamy remains fixed in his spot, his whole body tense as he resists the urge to punch Miller in the face. He closes his eyes, and takes deep breaths as his nostrils flare. Opening his eyes, he flushes out all the anger in his muscles as he smiles sweetly at Miller, saying, “We should set up camp. Before we know it, sunset will be upon us. I’ll go collect some wood for a fire. You start on the tent.” He starts to walk away.

Miller shouts after him, “You can’t avoid it, Bellamy! We _will_ have our talk!”

Bellamy doesn’t offer him a response. He continues to stalk into the forest, stomping his way over tree roots and rocks.

 _Clarke this, Clarke that. Why is it always about Clarke?_ Bellamy asks himself. Another voice speaks up in his mind, replying, _It’s not about me, Bellamy. I’m just the way to open you up._

Bellamy shakes his head, trying to get the logic out of his head. He doesn’t do logic - that was Clarke. Her specialty. He was the heart, but now off balance without his counterweight.

He tried to stay strong at first, but as more and more months passed, Bellamy found it harder and harder to maintain the order in his own body. He eventually, he thinks three months in, started chanting in his head when faced with an issue, _What would Clarke do?_ That usually helped, but after another month or two the effect started to fade, along with his memories of Clarke. He remembered her voice was low - but he couldn’t remember the exact tone she used when she was worked up, or excited. He of course remembered how blue her eyes were - but what shade? Aquamarine, sea blue, or sky blue? Just how big was that adorable birthmark on her upper lip? Did she smirk on her left or right when she tried to hold in a laugh?

 _Stop it, Bellamy!_ he yells at himself. Thinking about those things were not helping him at all.

Returning to camp, Bellamy is remotely pleased to see that Miller made progress on the tents. Bellamy strides in, sets up his side, eats his rations, and promptly goes to sleep. Miller takes the message, and as he makes a fire, Bellamy falls asleep once again thinking about a certain petite blonde.

In the morning, it seems at first that Miller shelved his absurd idea to talk to Bellamy about his problems. They joke as usual, and smoke some of their meat. They talk about random shit like they do, but as they walk back to camp around noon the tone changes.

“I won’t ignore it any longer,” Miller says.

Bellamy, in front of Miller, freezes in place. He turns around, laughing quietly. “You just won’t let it go, will you? I’m not about to have a heart-to-heart with you, Miller.”

Miller’s gaze remains fixed on Bellamy’s head, both thoughtful and stubborn. “No. You only have ever had those with two people, that I know of. One of which is your sister. The other, Clarke.”

Bellamy’s mouth thins. “We are not doing this.”

“Enough!” Miller yells, using the tone of voice guards use to keep control of a crowd. A crowd dangerously close to becoming a mob. Bellamy’s training lets him resist its effects a bit, but hearing Miller use it on him creates some difficulty. “I can’t begin to imagine what you are feeling. Yes, I lost my father, but I got him back. Yes, I was in Mount Weather too, but not like you. I killed some people,” Miller’s gaze turns empathetic, “but those were genuinely bad people. I don't have to dwell on the guilt you must be fighting.”

Bellamy’s eyes snap to look at Miller. “What do you mean,” he says in a monotone, dead.

“You know what I mean. Clarke wasn’t the only one to pull that lever, irridiating the Mountain. And then she left you, possibly the only person you could relate to. And you don’t want to tell anyone else, because what? You think we will perceive you as a monster? You’re wrong.”

Bellamy’s gaze joins his voice in a dead tone when he replies, “You may not think me a monster, but others will. It wasn’t worth the risk.”

“It’s not worth the risk to keep you stewing in your own head! Besides the fact you may explode at any second-” when Bellamy gives an offended look at Miller, he gives a disapproving look like a mother on a toddler- “It’s downright unhealthy. So I am going to tell you again. We should talk.”

Bellamy looks away, licking his bottom lip in thought. “Fine.”

“Dude, we really - wait, did you say fine?”

Bellamy scrunches his mouth into his face, making an absurd expression. “Yeah.”

Miller wipes some hair from his eyes. “Wow. Okay. Yeah. Didn’t expect you to back down so quickly… anyway…”

Bellamy laughs at Miller, for when he gets what he wants he doesn’t even know what to say.

“It’s not the irradiation that I can’t handle,”  he says.

Miller just looks at him, waiting.

“I don’t… when Clarke turned away from me, I understood her. I was there to support her, not take away her pain and guilt. But I… I had asked her to stay.” A pause. “But she didn’t even acknowledge it.” Now Bellamy looks at Miller, eyes unfocused. “You know I almost left the dropship? I think it wasn’t long after Charlotte died.” Miller shakes his head. “I didn’t, though, obviously. Thanks to Clarke. She asked me to stay, forgave me for what I had done. And when I offered her the same, it wasn’t enough. I wasn’t good enough for her.” With that, Bellamy puts his palms on his eyes.

Miller whistles long and low, shaking his head. “Geez. That’s different than I thought was going on. But just as rough.” He catches up to Bellamy, and they continue walking back to camp. “You know, I doubt she meant in that way.”

Bellamy nods. “I know. I know that. Still, whenever her name is mentioned, I still feel awful, like I failed her somehow. She needed more, and I couldn’t offer it to her. So she needed to find it elsewhere.”

“Bellamy,” Miller puts his hand on Bellamy’s shoulder, forcing him to turn and face him. Gazing sternly in his eyes, he says, “I don’t think _anyone_ could have offered her what she needed.”

Bellamy pulls himself out of Miller’s grasp, continuing on again. “Yeah,” he agrees. “But maybe I could have helped her look.”

 

* * *

 

He doesn’t want to admit it. It goes against every fiber of his being, but he does.

Talking to Miller helped.

After another hour (and not one more! So help him, if he was gonna keep pouring his heart out to _Miller_ …) he feels better, more confident. Like how he did when he and Clarke led the Delinquents back at the Dropship. Only difference now, Clarke isn’t there. But it doesn’t bother him as much.

He also admits to himself that bothering and aching are different emotions.

But now his laughs are full, his smiles light.

The past months had been hard with Octavia, but once he got back he patched things right up. He knew Clarke would not want them to be fighting because of her.

Over the few weeks, Storytime With Bellamy somehow became a thing. It started at first when he sat down with a seven year old and told the story of the 12 Greek Gods and how they more than often fought then got anything done on top of Mount Olympus. Then more and more kids became interested, and before he knew it every Monday and Thursday night around the bonfire Bellamy would tell stories about the Romans, Greeks, Mesopotamians, and Egyptians for hours. He never ran out, and Octavia made fun of him repeatedly about how much of a nerd he was. But Bellamy didn’t care. Every child he made smile was repentance for the kids in Mount Weather. A gift for their souls.

Besides, he _loves_ the history.

After coming back from a hunting/gathering trip with others, a storming Abby came up to him, Kane running dexterously behind.

“Blake, we need you.” Kane nods, breathing heavily.

Bellamy shrugs off a deer from his shoulder, passing it to a man to take it to the food storage. “Well, since you asked so nicely,” he replies, holding back a curtsy. Abby huffs, and leads the two men to the Council tent.

Abby and Kane retreat to the far side of the tent, hiding behind the large table crafted by an expert carpenter. Bellamy folds his arms, widening his stance. “Well?” he prompts, trying to keep his voice civil.

Kane steps in before Abby can open her mouth. “You are probably aware of the continuous tension between the people of the Ark and the Del- you guys,” Kane says.

“Yes,” Bellamy says, “but it has never been an issue. I think it’s much lower than it has been before.”

Abby cuts in, “That’s true. But we think it’s time for it to disappear forever. So we are asking you to take some people out to create another settlement.”

“And by people, you mean the former Delinquents,” Bellamy deadpans. Kane nods.

“Yes, but not just them. Adults have already volunteered to join you, but you just need to persuade the kids now.”

Bellamy looks at Kane with daggers. “They aren’t kids. Not after what they have been through. You know that.” Kane tries to interject, but Bellamy continues, “But I don’t think this is a terrible idea. I’ll see what I can do.”

With the self-dismissal, Bellamy pushes a tent flap to the side. In one last thought, he turns back. “But I am not going with the group. I am staying here. Just in case she comes back.” Abby nods, but Kane bites his lip.

“No. The kids need you, and you know this, if you won’t outright acknowledge that. Clarke, if she comes back, will find you. You don’t need to be stagnant for her.”

Bellamy takes a deep breath, and leaves just saying, “ _When_. When she comes back.”

 

It turns out that it doesn’t take much to persuade the teens. Almost everyone volunteers immediately, except for a few. Jasper outright refuses to go when Monty gets excited to leave the camp. The awkwardness passes when Raven and Wick’s bickering escalates and everyone just watches them until they notice they are the only ones talking.

“Um,” Raven says.

“We are going too,” Wick announces proudly.

“God! Fine! I hate you,” Raven hits him in the arm, limping away.

“Now that that’s settled,” Bellamy says to regain attention, “I’ll give you the details. We leave in two weeks. Pack what you need, then what you want. Not too much. Prepare for at least three days of travel to pack the right amount of food. We are going to the Dropship, but modifying it. Tearing down a section of the fence, lengthening it, cleaning up the ashes. Anyone want to back out?”

No hands.

“Good. See you in two weeks.”

As they disperse, Bellamy rubs a palm on his forehead. All the planning will give him a headache, and just thinking about the oncoming headache is giving him a headache. The word headache is giving him a headache.

"Are you sure about this?"

Bellamy drops his hand to reveal Lincoln standing in front of him, the concerned crease in his mouth forming.

"Excuse me?" Bellamy says sarcastically. Really, Lincoln is the last person he wants to deal with. He's civil with the man, but not too friendly.

"Well, separation in my experience isn't the best practice."

Bellamy gives him a confused look. "This isn't separating. This is expanding."

Lincoln responds with a look of his own. "That's not the separation I'm talking about. I'm implying that you are leaving the camp, this removing yourself from the possible reunion of Clarke's return. Are you sure you can deal with that?"

Bellamy folds his arms, barely looking up at the tall man (he's not _that_ much taller). He contemplates, then says, "I'm actually not. I've put some thought into this. Clarke made a choice. I didn't like it, but I had to deal with it. Now I'm making a choice, and when Clarke returns she'll also find a way to deal with it. That's what we do on the Ground. We will just have to get past another obstacle, which is no problem. We are both adults."

Lincoln looks approvingly at Bellamy, and Bellamy doesn't really appreciate being scrutinized like that. Then out of the blue, Lincoln says, "That's right. Clarke must have turned 18 sometime these past six months. Octavia told me how she it was almost her birthday when they sent all of you to the Ground."

With that, Lincoln leaves. He's an okay man for my sister, Bellamy thinks. He tries not to dwell on the fact that he wishes he could have been with Clarke on her birthday. He could have surprised her with a new jacket, or something. He does have other talents than being really really really good-looking.

Sighing, Bellamy turns to prepare for his incoming headache.

 

* * *

 

The two weeks are almost up, and Bellamy double checks his inventory and supplies for the journey. A _woosh_ brushes his hair in his eyes, and he grumbles as he looks accusingly at his sister. She just rolls her eyes, not caring about her impact as usual.

“Look, Bell, I’ve been thinking,” Octavia says.

“That’s a surprise,” Bellamy snidely responds, snickering when his sister punches him in the upper arm. “Ow! That kinda hurt, O,” he whines.

“Such a baby,” she says. “Anyways, I’ve been thinking. And I’m not going to go back to the Dropship with you.”

Bellamy freezes, putting his list down and sliding a pencil behind his ear. Turning to Octavia, “What? Seriously?”

Octavia sighs. “Yes, I am being serious. Lincoln and I are staying here. We’ve settled in pretty well, the Dropship doesn’t contain the best memories for Lincoln, -it’s not really for fault, Bell, he totally forgives you-” she adds when Bellamy looks down for a second biting his lip. “And… if Clarke comes back, I want to be here. For you, and for me.”

Now Bellamy looks up. “So you’ve forgiven Clarke? And you really want to separate again?” He won’t admit it, but Octavia already knows. It was so hard for him to leave her in Mount Weather, and since they made up he’s been keeping an eye on her all the time. They eat meals together, and catch up every other day.

Octavia looks at Bellamy right in the eye, determined. “Kinda. I want to talk to her as soon as I can, in a civilized manner. And maybe apologize as well… and the separation is not forever, we know that. But, to be honest Bell, I don’t need you looking after me all the time anymore. I do have Lincoln, but I don’t need _him_ to look after me either. I can take care of myself. I’ve grown these past few months.” Her demeanor gets brighter. “Did I tell you? Indra recently said that Lincoln could try and join the Trikru again. She is still debating about me, but I think I’ll make her come around. I’ve learned a few new tricks thanks to Lincoln, so I think I have a good chance.”

Bellamy’s heart swells with pride, and he can’t help but tossing his list on his bed and enwrapping his sister in a bearhug. She squeals, but reciprocates right after. “You’re awesome,” he tells her. He can feel her smile in his shoulder.

“I know.”

 

* * *

 

All seventy-three people of the Ark march away from Camp Jaha, led by Bellamy Blake. Saying a few “May-we-meet-agains” here and there, he turned away from the camp, mimicking Clarke’s goodbye to him.

On his walk back, he holds materials to sew together a new jacket and scarf for Clarke. A birthday gift, and a welcome back gift. He hopes she’ll be able to receive it soon.

The new settlers leave seven months, two weeks, and three days after the Battle of Mount Weather.

Clarke steps out of the trees, gazes at the giant sign _Camp Jaha_ , and steps through the gates of the Ark seven months, two weeks, and six days after she left Bellamy.

 ****  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Damn. Rough ending, right? (At least I hope it was)
> 
> Also anyone catch my Zoolander reference? (god i'm such a dweeb. But that's the best movie ever.)
> 
> Stay tuned for chapter four. It's almost ready! We continue in Bellamy's head as he reacts to Clarke's return.
> 
> As always, thanks for reading, and please comment!


	4. Smokey Daydreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bellamy is working on the Dropship area when someone stumbles into camp...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm bad at angst. Just putting that out there.

_I can see you standing next to me_

_In and out, somewhere else right now_

_You sigh, look away_

_I can see it clear as day_

_Close your eyes, so afraid_

_Hide behind your baby face_

__

_You can drive_

_all night_

_looking for the answers in the pouring rain_

_You wanna find_

_peace of mind_

_Looking for the answer_

__

_If we could find a reason, a reason to change_

_If you could find a reason, a reason to stay_

 

They have been at the Dropship area for three days now. Parts of the old fence were torn down - basically all except the main gate. Ashes were swept, blood cleaned, and blueprints made. Thanks to Bellamy’s constant rotation, every work group is checked every two hours, ensuring good progress. Lines for the rest of the fence to be built are shoveled, wood is being chopped for use, and a fire smoking meat is on at all hours of the day.

At night, Bellamy took the time to knit together that scarf for Clarke, and sew the jacket. Using a quilt stitch, he made a jacket very similar to Clarke’s old one - but with Monty’s help, he dyed it a deep blue - cobalt, Monty said.

This evening, as the sun is just about to disappear, Bellamy sits by the bonfire as the sound of sawing and hammering along with the crackling of fire takes over his ears. He leans over the jacket, putting finishing touches on the sleeves, making sure the hem is perfect. Using a golden thread, he weaves in a pattern like fireworks all over the material of the jacket, matching the golden hue of the scarf he knitted (like a maniac, Raven had said, as his hands were “absolutely” going about ninety miles per hour).

Cutting of the thread, Bellamy lifts up the jacket to examine it at eye-level. Lowering the jacket a bit, he can see the gate of Skai Camp, as it has been dubbed now. A glow of gold sparkles from the gate, and at first Bellamy just think it is light glinting from the jacket in his hands. But lowering the article of clothing, the beacon doesn’t go anywhere.

Clarke walks slowly through the first couple feet of the new grounds, looking around. She doesn’t look meek, only a bit timid. She doesn’t look confused, but methodical.

To Bellamy, she looks beautiful.

He shakes his head at that thought, because all he wants to do right now is run straight at her and take her in his arms like she did at Camp Jaha before she thought him dead. But his body remains frozen in place, as the jacket still remains partially in the air.

Some of the noises around him stop - but if that’s because everything else around Bellamy fades, or others notice Clarke’s presence, he isn’t sure.

His breath catches when she finally makes contact with Bellamy. A hesitant smile -he hopes he’ll get a genuine one quickly- pops on her face as she quickens her pace to reach him. When she is three yards from him, his muscles finally respond to commands from his head and he stands up abruptly, letting go of the jacket.

For the first time ever, Bellamy actually feels like he is looking down at the short blonde, who for so long always seemed to somehow domineer over him.

“Clarke?”

Her eyes get watery as he says her name, and for the love of god Bellamy wishes somehow he could make them go away.

A horrible part of him feels that she doesn’t have the right to cry, but he pushes that down for Clarke. She deserves anything she wants.

“B-Bellamy?” she whispers, reaching a hand up to him as though to touch his cheek. It is so close, Bellamy slightly leans to it, but never finds contact. He breaths in through his nose, and can taste all the woods on her hands from not having soap for so long. Her eyes have bags under them, and her hair is so disheveled it sticks up in many locations. But all he can see is her eyes, and how they shimmer in the light of the fire. The spark of her ferocity is gone, the torch of passion drenched - replaced by a deep conscience of thought, and a dark sea of despair.

Bellamy has no idea what she sees in his eyes, but a silent tear comes from her right cheek. That kills him, and he silently uses the pad of his thumb to rub it off. He holds her whole cheek in his palm, and he loves how small in comparison she is to him.

A sharp intake of breath welcomes the touch of his hand, and Bellamy almost recoils, worried she doesn't want him that close to her. But she quickly puts her hand over his, and the smile turns from hesitant to relieved.

"Is that really you, Bell?"

Bellamy chokes out a laugh -he can't believe this is almost making him cry- as he says, "of course it is, Princess. Why wouldn't I be?"

Her smile widens -it’s not as wide was Bellamy wants, but they’ll reach that point eventually- and she says, so quietly, Bellamy stops breathing once more to hear her.

“I’ve really missed you, Bellamy.”

Bellamy locks his jaw, trying to contain the tear in his eye, because he will not cry over a girl. Hell no.

“I’ve missed you too, Princess, but don’t get all soft on me. I just got you back. Let me show you around?” He hopes she’ll answer in the affirmative.

Clarke finally steps back, letting both their hands drop. “Yeah. Let’s.”

So Bellamy gives Clarke a tour, trying to ignore all the stares and pointed looks people are giving them. He first takes her to the library - where books salvaged from the Ark were taken, as well as some being scribed right now. She adores that idea. Bellamy takes down his favorite book, _A Brief History of the Greek and Roman Empires_ , and Clarke gives him a look of happy disbelief.

At the greenhouse, Monty drops the plant he was dealing with -very delicately, Harper snided- and rushes straight to Clarke, almost knocking her down in a hug. His cheek hurts from smiling after five seconds, and after some brief words they part and continue the tour.

Bellamy doesn’t dwell on the lavatories, but when he mentions they have a shift dumping all the crap every six hours, Clarke asks what they are doing with all the feces. Bellamy makes a grossed-out look, questioning her why she would even ask him them.

“Because I’m wondering? Why else would I ask?”

“Well, of course we are taking it to a safe spot in the woods! We dug a huge hole where we take everything.”

Clarke nods, but it’s the type of nod Bellamy has come to recognize as one that also makes her head look like she is shaking it. “Well?”

“I just think it would be efficient and effective if you took some of the poop and used it for fertilization for the greenhouse."

Bellamy looks blankly at Clarke. "That's disgusting."

Clarke rolls her eyes. "Maybe so, but who cares? It would really help the plants. They would be stronger and grow faster."

Bellamy shifts on his feet. "The people care, that's who! Who wants to eat food grown out of their own shit?"

Clarke raises her hand, her other hand on her hip.

"Well, besides you, Clarke," Bellamy says, exacerbated.

Clarke looks at Bellamy, a silly smile on her face. It does weird things to Bellamy's macho mojo, and he almost backs down to her idea. What she says next makes him full out bark in laughter.

"No 'Princess' for someone who wants to eat shit-infused food?"

"Naw," Bellamy says, "even that's too much for me."

They both fall silent, smirks on their faces when they realize they have been staring at each other for a second too long.

Bellamy is completely nonplussed by her presence, examining how he can see her standing next to him, in the flesh. But something about her gaze isn't out to the world - it's inwards, as if she is somewhere else right now.

A split second later the effect is gone, and Clarke is back in her eyes. She gives a challenging look to Bellamy, saying "Well, you want to leave it up to the people if you think they care so much?" Bellamy shrugs, bringing his hands up near his shoulders for the full effect.

Clarke nods, all business now, and turns on her heel to return to the central area of camp. Bellamy plods behind her, and he reminds himself how fast the short blonde really is.

At the makeshift soapbox, Bellamy climbs on after Clarke. She looks at him, eyebrows raised expectantly, and he clears his throat then roars, "Attention residents of Skai Camp!" Immediately all noises stop. Bellamy is kinda proud that the effect is usually instantaneous - but it was never this quick. And he knows why tonight it is different.

He knows Clarke will hate him for doing this, but he won't have any other opportunity so he takes it.

"I have a proposition for the people or Skai Camp tonight that we need to take a vote on. But first," he doesn't even look at Clarke when she starts next to him, "please join me in welcoming back the one and only Clarke Griffin!" Most cheer, while some stare blankly at the girl. Bellamy clears his throat again, then continues, "and now to the actual elder of business. Clarke here has already requested some changes in the camp - she thinks we should use some of our... Biowaste in the fertilizer. I personally think that's disgusting, but to each their own."

Clarke rolls her eyes, sniding, "We already established that fact." Bellamy can hear people snicker, and one voice calls out, "Wow, they really can't help but bicker, even when they just reunited two hours ago!" And all the kids start laughing, while the adults just look around perplexed.

Clarke sighs, looks away. Bellamy swears he seems something on her face - but it disappears in a flash. She just grins out to the crowd, ever the politician. "Anyway, it's not that gross, because before you put the biosolids in the compost you sanitize them either by heat or anaerobic respiration."

"A-what what?" "The fuck?" Are generally the responses Clarke gets. Bellamy looks at her, and says in a disbelieving tone, "And where are we supposed to get a vacuum to start this anaerobic respiration?"

Clarke tilts her head, "Well I assume you came here with Raven. I'm sure she can make on in a split second."

"I'm sure she can, but she _won't_!"

All faces turn to the voice, which booms across the sea of people. Slowly, like the Red Sea in the story is the Israelites, the Skai Campers part for a woman who hobbles through the mass, as a dirty blonde man walks after her, hands up in case she falls. Good thing she can't see him there, or she'd kick him in the face, Bellamy thinks.

At the front of the makeshift stage, Raven Reyes stands on her crutches in full glory, red jacket, high ponytail and all. Clarke stands agape on the soapbox, staring at the woman. Raven shifts on her crutches to allow her to point at Clarke.

"I won't make a damn thing, at least not until this crazy bitch says hi to me! How long have you been here? And you haven't said a goddamned word to me? What am I, chopped liver?"

Clarke bursts out laughing, making a hard feeling in Bellamy's heart. Why can't _he_ make her laugh like that?

The rest of the crowd joins in to the pair's joy, as Clarke steps off the stage and practically lunges at Raven. They continue laughing, and Raven closes her eyes as if she can't believe Clarke is really in her arms. Bellamy sure can't believe it.

He keeps gazing at them, the sorrow in his heart expanding. Raven opens her eyes to look at Bellamy as he examines the back of Clarke's head. She scans him bottom to top, then smirks knowingly. He raises an eyebrow, but she doesn't respond any further.

Clarke and Raven finally part, and Clarke asks loud enough for everyone to hear, "So how hard would it for you to create a vacuum?"

Raven laughs. "Seriously? Maybe two hours, possibly three. But it will be _super_ easy."

Clarke looks all around. "So there we go. All the bacteria would be dead, so there is nothing to worry about. Plus it would only help the crops grow."

"All in favor?" Bellamy barks. Most hands raise. "Great. I'll add it to the list of duties and assign who I think would be good for the job. As usual, volunteers welcome and exchanges dealt with. Good night everyone." The people disperse.

"Already influencing the life around here, Princess. Always need to leave your impact somehow," he jokes, smiling at Clarke as they step off the soapbox. Clarke's body stiffens, and Bellamy can see his mistake as clear as day.

"Shit-Clarke, that's not what I meant-" he begins. She turns around, a sad smile plastered on her lips.

"I know," she interrupts. "But it still hurts." She closes her eyes, and her whole body looks like she is so afraid. Of what, Bellamy isn't sure. She turns her head, hiding her face from Bellamy's scrutiny.

The silence kills him. "We should probably head to bed," he says. Clarke starts to agree, but Bellamy interrupts now, "but I have one last thing to show you."

Bellamy begins to walk away, not looking back. His memory snaps a scene of Clarke walking away from him, not looking back, but he hopes she follows him as he did not.

She does.

Finally they reach a spot behind the old Dropship, cleared of trees and rocks. A foundation is being built for a small building, maybe ten by twenty feet.

"What's this?" Clarke asks.

"This," Bellamy gestures to the area, "will be the medical building."

Clarke's eyes shift from staring at the foundation, to Bellamy, then back again. Her face remains blank.

Her lack of response worries Bellamy. He rubs the back of his neck, following her eyes to the med building. "I drew up the blueprints for this myself. I um, designed it with you in mind."

Something Bellamy has never witnessed starts before his eyes. Clarke's lip wavers, and her eyes pool with tears. Like a soft plea, she whispers to Bellamy, "I don't deserve your kindness," and she breaks down. Her sobbing doesn't draw any attention - it's as if she remains stagnant in pouring rain, looking to the sky for answers. Tears stream down her face as she clasps a palm over her open mouth, and shakes take her body one after the other.

Bellamy has no fucking clue what to do. He raises his hands in an effort to comfort her, but waves them around idiotically and settles to putting one on her shoulder. He steers her away from the few piles of wood, hoping taking her away from her source of sadness will help.

He leads her to his tent. After a minute of silence as she stands around his tent, taking in his sleeping quarters, he says, "You do, by the way. Deserve my kindness. After everything you've done for me, I'll give you it," _and more_ , he almost says.

Clarke shakes her head stubbornly, wrapping her arms around her abdomen to make herself smaller. Bellamy desires to change the subject.

"So, how did you know I was back here anyway?"

Back facing him, Clarke fingers some tarp falling from the ceiling. She can barely reach, and it almost cracks Bellamy up.

"I arrived back at Camp Jaha two days ago. Octavia saw me at once, and after we talked she told me where you were. Thankfully before my mom noticed I was back. I hightailed it here immediately, getting here as fast as I could. I tried to hike through the night, but that was a bad idea as soon as it got pitch black."

"No shit," Bellamy mutters. Clarke nods.

"I guess that's why I look like such a mess," Clarke says, lifting up a dark slab of her hair. It's thick with dust and mud, and Bellamy thinks he can hear it fall back into place next to her head.

"You never look like a mess," Bellamy says. But Clarke doesn't hear. She holds up a hand to her forehead, cringing. Bellamy lunges to her, putting both hands on her shoulders. "What's wrong?" He asks, eyes wide and frantic.

"Ugh - I think I'm getting a headache from dehydration. I only brought enough water to get me from my encampment to Camp Jaha. I had some extra, but not much. Can I sit?" She motions to his bed on the ground. Bellamy of course lets her, and she sits, legs out, both hands on her head now.

"Stay here. I'll be right back," he tells her, the rushes out to get water. Not three minutes later he returns, two cups in hand, to see a sleeping Clarke Griffin passed out on his mattress. He smiles at her, endeared, and places both cups next to her head. Remembering the jacket and scarf he left near the bonfire, he fetches them too. He places that, folded perfectly, next to her head too.

He kneels down next to her, brushing some hair from her face. "Sleep well, Princess." He kisses her head, collects some personal items, then leaves the tent.

 

* * *

 

A wet feeling on his nose wakes Bellamy.

Snorting with anger, he rubs his nose furiously, grumbling about the cold. He is completely bundled up - tank top, t shirt, long sleeve, jacket, the a sweater. He fucking hates the cold, and it's stupid winter right now.

The fact that he slept right outside his own tent didn't help. But he wasn't going to leave Clarke alone in there.

Groaning, he unwraps himself from the burrito he made out of his blankets. Then he tenderly lifts back a flap of the tent.

No one is there.

Bellamy starts freaking out. He goes numb inside.

_What if she left again?_

She couldn't do that to him twice.

He rushes away from the tent, running about the camp area as others start rising as well. He goes from tent to tent, scanning for the blonde.

He reaches the greenhouse, peeps inside, asking "Princess?" After being greeted with silence, he retreats back towards his own tent downtrodden.

Then he sees her - sparkles of thin snowflakes fly around her silhouette as she stands on top of the fence, looking out to the forest and beyond. Bellamy races to her, scaling the steps by skipping every other, but slows down to a walk before he reaches Clarke.

A smile tugs at his lips when he sees her in the jacket, with a scarf wrapped delicately around her neck. She turns at his presence and the smile converts to a smirk as she snuggles into her jacket more.

"I guess you liked your present," he remarks. She nods, content, then looks down at the camp. A question seems to beg to be asked in the depths of blue, but even as she tries in the pouring snow she doesn't seem to find the answer she is looking for. But Bellamy tries to help her reach it.

"You know," he says, "if you could find a reason..." He stops, unable to find the words. He doesn't want to trigger a bad response, but the words need to be said. "If you can find a reason to stay, I will help you. With anything. But if you need to go, to keep changing or whatever, I get it. But know that it's been rough without you and that's not going to go away."

Clarke doesn't respond. She just gazes at the looming Dropship.

Bellamy is getting irritated. "I get it. This place doesn't have the best memories for me either. But you know what? We've been through worse and got through it. You know how?"

Clarke's eyes shift to meet his. "We got through it because we had each other. I don't think separation will be any more help any longer, and if you think it will you are just fooling yourself. And that worries me, because you aren't the type of person to let yourself be fooled."

Done with his angered monologue, sits on the bench facing the woods.

"I'm tired, Clarke. Ever since we got back, all the kids' problems have been directed at me. And I didn't have anyone to bounce ideas or decisions off. Everything had been on me. And I'm not sure I can deal with that much longer. It's exhausting."

Clarke stayed fixed on Bellamy through his personal speech, even when his gaze shifted downward. A soft touch of her hand over his brings his eyes back up. The first touch she had initiated.

"I know, Bellamy." He nods, taking in her sympathy. The warmth of her fingers leaves him, as she takes the spot next to him on the bench. "I want to stay. I really do. But it's hard not to remember the past."

Bellamy looks down at her. "Then don't try to fight it. That is a waste of energy. Accept it, move on. It's okay."

She looks up at him, more tears in her eyes then she would probably like to admit. She nods, biting her bottom lip. Bellamy remains transfixed on her teeth clutching her red skin. She turns away, and Bellamy's disappointed until she rests her head on his shoulder. "Thanks for the jacket," she says quietly.

"Of course."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sweet *tear*  
> The next chapter is almost ready. Be warned - it's a doozy.
> 
> Thanks for reading, and please comment! Any and all critiques appreciated ^-^


	5. It Could Be Over

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reconciliation and possiblities

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long to post. Hope you enjoy! ^-^

  _Feathers hit the ground before_

_the weight can leave the air_

 

_Tell the sky and tell the sky_

_Don't fall on me_

_Buy the sky and sell the sky_

_and lift your arms up to the sky_

_and ask the sky, ask sky_

_Fall on me_

_You've got to promise to keep it home_

_Fall on me,_

_it's over, it's over_

  


It's not completely back to normal, Clarke knows. But it will never go back to normal, so that is fine. 

A couple weeks have passed since Clarke reunited with Bellamy. Granted, it was awkward at first, since Bellamy kept doting after Clarke like a baby. But after Clarke confronted the issue head-on, they got over it. At least after a heated debate over her well-being.

_It's not his job to take care of me_ , Clarke always thinks. 

Clarke likes to focus on the progress being made in Skai Camp. She lays low, helping in jobs with small groups, but always checks in with Bellamy to see if they are on target. The fence has been expanded by a twentieth of a mile each direction, making the full diameter of the camp grounds a fourth of a mile. Clarke can't believe how big the place is - how different it looks. The only thing remaining from the past is the Dropship, still casting a large shadow wherever Clarke steps.

Clarke has had multiple debates with Bellamy about destroying it, but he refuses every time. He claims some day it will be a historic landmark, and it is their duty to preserve it. Also how would they even go about destroying it??

Clarke just rebuttaled that he is a history nerd, and wants to make some mark in the world.

"Princess, I'm _always_ making my mark on the world," he had joked.

Clarke laughs now at his absurdity to herself, wrapping her jacket tighter on her body. (She freaking loves this jacket Bellamy made her. He somehow got all her measurements exactly, and that's a little strange, but she doesn't care because it's so warm and feels like Bellamy). It's early in the morning, as Clarke always likes to try and witness the sunrise every day. She had almost missed it today, but reached the top of the hill to see the lower part of the sun stop hiding from under a distant mountain.

"Fancy seeing you here," a voice greets her. Clarke doesn't even turn around, ignoring Bellamy.

"I guess even my gorgeousness can't pry your eyes away from that burning ball of fire that does nothing to actually warm me up."

Clarke sighs. "Obviously it is doing something, Bellamy, or we would all be dead. We actually never would have been alive."

"Yeah yeah," he says as he takes his place next to her. "Tell that to my frostbitten fingers."

Clarke turns to him now, scared. "What? Are you serious? Let me see," she grabs his hands and starts ripping off his gloves.

Bellamy takes his hands away. "No, I was joking. But if you do take my gloves off, I don't think I'll be joking for long."

Something about that sentence bothers Clarke. The implication that she could injure Bellamy severely cuts her soul.

The idea prompts thought after thought in her head. _Have I already hurt Bellamy more than I can imagine? Was that passive aggressive? Am I causing his laughter to fade? Would he be better off without me?_

Clarke distances herself from Bellamy, giving him a few steps of space. From her peripheral view Clarke can see Bellamy turn a bit and look at her sideways, as if trying to find an answer for her move. But she can't give that to him - she can only tell the sky, so he will never fall on her. 

"Thanks for the jacket," Clarke says to break the cold silence.

"You say that every day," Bellamy says, smirking at her.

"I know. That's because I really appreciate it," Clarke says back. She doesn't know why - oh, who is she kidding? She knows why she repeats that as often as she can. Because she wants him to know that she treasures this gift from him. Not because she appreciates nice clothing - because he took the time to make something especially for her, and that is a kindness that keeps her both stationary and sane. Because if Bellamy can make her a jacket and scarf, maybe he has the amazing capacity in himself to forgive her someday.

"It's getting pretty cold," Bellamy says in a worried tone. Clarke's first instinct is to wrap her arms around the center of his body to combine their warmth. But she can't do that - she can't infringe on his personal space until she deems that they have returned to their former level of relationship.

The main problem is that she doesn't even know how to define what relationship they had before. In Mount Weather, they had a common goal - to protect the kids they had somehow become the leaders of. To make sure that above all else, they were okay. They had passed camaraderie - they had formed a subconscious bond that connected them in actions and thoughts. Maybe those thoughts conflicted at times, but they always worked it out by being their for each other.

Now Clarke doesn't feel like she is should be the person there for Bellamy. Someone else needs to take that spot.

"Clarke?" Bellamy coaxes her from the thought. "You good?" 

And another thing - the tone of voice Bellamy sometimes uses now irks her. It's as if she is fragile - will flinch or break if he uses any other inflection. She's the one who lived on her goddamned own for seven months...

 "Clarke?" Bellamy asks again, more concerned.

 "Yes!" Clarke snaps. "I'm fine!" She pivots in a tight circle and starts to stalk back to camp.

"Geez, I was only worried that you were going to get hyperthermia or something."

Clarke remembers how a projection of Bellamy from her mind was worried about her when she stood in the cold river alone. Guess she knew him pretty well.

"Well, don't worry about me. _I'm_ the doctor, remember? Let me handle that area of expertise."

 "Cool. Fine," Bellamy grumbles, lengthening his stride to overtake Clarke. She storms inside, but cannot do anything to get past him other than run, which she won't risk in the deep snow.

Right before they enter the grounds, Bellamy stops to wait for Clarke. As she storms passed, he grabs her forearm.

Rubbing the back of his neck, eyes downward, he begins, "So Clarke, I've been thinking... we should-" Clarke feels as though feathers in her stomach hit the ground before the air could displace. What's he going to suggest? She can't begin to imagine.

"BELLAMY! CLARKE! Come quick!" Monty sprints to the pair, hair flying.

Both adults, in comparison to the small Asian, kick into leader mode. "Yes?" they respond in unison.

"It's..." Monty pants. "It's Miller. He's unconscious, hurt pretty badly. But I don't know what's wrong. He stumbled into camp, then collapsed."

"Well what are we standing here for?" Bellamy commands, and begins to run for the med building. Clarke sprints after him, preparing a mental list of supplies she will possibly need.

When they reach Medical, Luis is shining a flashlight into Miller's eyes.

"Responsive with a weak pulse," he tells Clarke as he lets her take over. She thanks him, asking more of a report.

He obliges (Clarke swears he's the only intern she will ever be able to deal with). "Patient has a superficial contusion on the side of the cranium, his right."

"Our left," Clarke corrects as she bumps Luis out of the way. She tilts Nathan's head, examining the dried blood behind his right ear. She checks his pulse, which does feel rather weak.

"I think this is more than just head trauma, but I'm not sure what..." Clarke says.

"Then what the hell it it?" Bellamy shouts.

Clarke had forgotten he was there, but in a flash cuts him with a glare. "I'm going to try and find out, but you shouting at this exact moment won't help. So if you are going to continue, step out and yell at the sky. But don't do that here." Bellamy grunts and folds his arms.

"Okay," Clarke says under her breath. She walks to the side of Nathan's gurney, placing both her heads on his temples.

"Nathan, are you there? Please wake up," she tries, steadying his head. With no response, she tries pouring some water on him. That does the trick.

Sputtering, Miller tries to sit up. "What? Where am I?" His hands clench, unclench. The veins in his forearms bulge as he tries to engage his muscles.

"Nathan, it's all right," Clarke sooths. "You're in the med building. I have some questions for you, and I need you to concentrate."

Miller groans, creasing his forehead in pain. "I know your head hurts, but please cooperate," Clarke pleads. Miller nods slightly.

"Good. What do you remember last?"

Miller's eyes scrunch even more. "I was alone in the woods, a couple miles out. Then I had these sharp pains in my legs, and I thought I was cramping. So I decided to come back to camp. It got worse and worse, and I slowly lost feeling and control of my legs. The pain was so intense that when I got back to camp, I blacked out..."

 "That can't be typical of cramps," Bellamy remarks. Monty shakes in the corner of the room, biting his thumb nails.

"No, not typically," Clarke says, patting Miller's legs. "Can you feel this?" She grazes his shin.

"What?" Nathan asks, looking around from side to side, then groaning when the movement is too much for his head.

"Can you feel this?" Clarke repeats, pinching his thigh.

"Feel what?”  A millisecond passes. “Oh, god," Miller cries, letting his head fall back onto his pillow.

"It will be okay, Nathan," Clarke calms him, or tries. "May I remove your pants?" She waits for a response, but Nathan fell back unconscious. Bellamy, however, unfolds his arms and puts on a dominant pose.

"Absolutely not!" he booms, taking control of the room. But Clarke won't have it. 

She shoves a finger in his chest, taking him down a size. "Do you want me to try and figure out what's wrong? Then stand back, and let me do the one thing I am good at!" she yells, turning back to Miller. She practically rips off his trousers, revealing the thin boxers he has on underneath. Both Bellamy and Monty flush red, but Luis and Clarke remain fixed on something else. His legs are laced with cuts, red dots, and needles. Clarke pulls one out, examining it. Blood drips off the sharp end, splattering on the floor.

Clarke looks at Luis, and he nods at her. She then turns to Bellamy, who stares at her in indignant understanding.

"Poison," they say together.

"I think it's some type of paralyzing poison to be more specific," Clarke says. "I hope it's just temporary. If it is, he'll get his movement back eventually."

"And if it's not?" Monty inquires, eyes wet.

"I guess Wick will need to whip up another brace," Bellamy monotones. Monty folds his mouth inwards.

"There's nothing else to do but wait now," Luis observes, wiping his hands on a towel. Clarke starts to agree when Miller wakes back up.

"Where am I?" Miller wails, eyes distant from body. He attempts to gaze from side to side, but doesn't seem to see anything.

"Nathan? It's Monty. You came back to camp then fell, and now you are in the Med Building. We told you before."

"That can't be," Miller whispers, breathing rapidly. His chest heaves in an out shallowly, and he licks his lips. Sweat forms on his forehead, and he rubs his thumb on the inside of this palm obsessively.

"Shit," Clarke mutters, rushing to gather blankets from a storage bin. Luis clicks in a moment later, helping Clarke negotiate the fabrics.

"What, what?" Bellamy takes a step to Clarke, but she pushes him back.

"I'm such an idiot! The weak pulse should have been the most obvious sign!" She mutters, forcing Miller to lay his head back down as she shoves the blankets into Luis' arms. Miller dazes in and out of lucidity.

"Sign of what?" Monty whispers.

"Shock. Now he's clammy, delirious, breathing shallowly, and feverish," she confirms the latter with a palm on the head. "We need to keep him warm - Bellamy, help Luis cover Miller with the blankets - and we need to prop his legs up a foot. Monty, get me that stool."

As Monty hands her the stool and she delicately places Miller's feet on the wood, Luis says, "But shouldn't we keep him steady since he has a head wound?"

"I think the head wound isn't as bad as we are making it out to be right now, and it is more important to get Miller out of shock. Check his breathing," Clarke commands. With that done, Clarke gets a wet cloth and wipes the sweat out of Miller's face. "Monty." The boy jumps. "Keep watch on Miller. Make sure he keeps breathing, relatively evenly. And notify me with any significant changes. Make shifts with Luis," she looks at the teen who nods, rubbing his five o'clock shadow. “Remember, no bright light in this room anymore as he gets over his head trama. Clarke looks at a dark Bellamy, curls covering his eyes. "We need to talk about this."

Bellamy agrees, and they walk together outside to debate on what to do.

"It was obviously an attack, but by whom?" Bellamy paces back and forth. "We need to find out as soon as possible. Let me take a team out to scout immediately," he tells Clarke.

She shakes her head. Before she can offer up an explanation, Bellamy plows over her. "No? Are you kidding me? What if this things leaves? We need to take it out now. I don't need your permission," he snides, about to walk away.

"Bellamy, wait," Clarke calls after him. She drags them to the side of the Med building. "We need to think about this carefully. There might be several of... whatever things attacked Miller this morning. We need to stick around for Miller to recover and tell us anything else he knows, then we can look."

"We?"

"Yes. We can't risk multiple persons - this is a two-party search. You and I will go out and look together as soon as possible. Agreed?"

Bellamy simply gazes at her a few minutes, meditating on his answer.

"Agreed."

 

* * *

 

The next day Miller is recovering. The feeling in his legs is numb, but subtle. Clarke announces confidently he will be walking again in no time. The shock passed in three treacherous hours, but they moved on from then.

 Miller confided he did not remember much else -Clarke chalked that to trauma- other than that he was directly south from their current location.

"Then that's where we are headed," Bellamy says as he and Clarke head back to their tents, set up one against the other. "How long should we plan for?"

"At least five days," Clarke decides, pausing outside her tent.  Bellamy nods. They part to pack, and in half and hour they stand outside the tents once more, both dubbed with a large backpack. "Ready?" Bellamy responds in the affirmative, and they head out the gates of Skai Camp together.

Fifteen minutes in the hike, Bellamy checks his compass. He continues checking it every five minutes after that, until after the fifth time Clarke can't stand the noise of him flipping it open.

"We are going the right way, Bellamy, just chill for a little bit. We have a few more miles to go!"

"Gives us plenty of time to have a nice chat, then?" Bellamy quips back.

"A chat? About what?" Clarke poofs some snow in the air with a kick.

"I know what you're going to say, that you are the doctor... but I think you are more of a physician, not a psychologist."

"Okay?"

"You've been distancing yourself. From me, from everyone around you. It's not good for you."

Clarke remains silent. This is "the Talk" she had been dreading since she decided to stay.

"Staying in your own head, I tried to do that after you left. And it was unhealthy. But I couldn't get out until Miller helped me. So I am just trying to help you."

"I appreciate it," Clarke says, "but you shouldn't help me. I don't need it."

"I think you do," Bellamy pushes. "You have something bothering you, more than I can perceive. If you could just tell me-"

"I can't, okay?" Clarke interrupts, holding up a hand. "I can't tell you, because it's about you and I don't... I don't want to hurt you any more than I already have."

Bellamy glances at her, then looks ahead once more. "What do you mean? You're afraid of injuring me? Just try, princess. I have abs of steel."

Clarke sighs. "Not physically. Mentally. Emotionally. I've put a lot of strain on you, and don't want to make it worse."

Bellamy stays silent now, hoping his lack of response will trigger more from the blonde.

It works. Clarke doesn't know how else to fill the silence but continuing on her train of thought. "The irradiating of Mount Weather was brutal. And I wasn't strong enough to do it on my own. I had needed you, and that hadn't been a good thing."

Bellamy stays silent, jaw locking. Clarke can see him grind his teeth, and she knows somehow she angered him.

"See?" she says. "You're upset because we were talking about this. I wanted avoid it, and now-"

"No, I'm not upset because we talked about this. I'm upset becau- AHH!" Bellamy is cut off. He rises in the air, and after Clarke blinks all she sees is a butt of white snow where Bellamy was before. She hears swearing above her, and with a glance sees Bellamy trapped in a net hanging from a tree.

"Bellamy!" she cries, careful not to step anywhere else. Once she has her footing, she begins to locate the string. "Just wait, I'll cut you down in a sec."

"Stop! Please don't!" Bellamy shouts, frantic. Clarke freezes as she walks from tree trunk to tree trunk. 

"Bellamy?" she inquires, confused. "Why don't you want me to let you down?"

"No! Don't take me! Please don't hang me!"

Clarke tilts her head. "I'm not the one hanging you. I'm trying to get you down from your suspension."

"Leave me in here, just don't drain me again!"

The last plea leaves Clarke pale, drained of blood herself. She knew what they had done to Bellamy - she had practically forced him to tell her. But she had no idea it ran this deep. The fact it left some PTSD in Bellamy makes Clarke feel even worse. He has been dealing with this mental issue, and she goes ahead and feels sorry for herself. She had no right. From now on, she will be there for Bellamy, not the other way around.

"Bellamy," she says in a calm voice, hands up in front of her. "It's me, Clarke. I'm just trying to help you. I won't hurt you."

"Clarke? Clarke, where are you? They haven't drained you, have they?" Bellamy tries to sit up in the net, but fails - in turn his head ends up on the bottom of the net, face squished between the holes. He falls back to pleading. "No! You can't drain me! I won't let you!" He starts squirming in the netting, trying to free himself. He roars in anger, rocking the entire branch.

"Bellamy, stop! You are going to hurt yourself!" Clarke yells at him, worried. Bellamy doesn't hear her, continuing to shake the trap. With no other option, since she can't let him down gently while he moves the rope, Clarke swipes at the trap with her knife, cutting Bellamy down. With a scream, Bellamy falls onto the ground. Clarke thanks something somewhere that there is a snowpack under him. He continues squirming, tenacious in the goal of escape. Clarke rushes to him, trying to calm him down. She untangles him from the netting, and grabs his face with both her hands. "Bell! Please!" Something clicks, and Bellamy stops struggling for a moment. Then he lets out a nasty roar, and slaps Clarke's cheek with the back of his hand. She topples to the snow, stunned and in pain. But she shakes it off for Bellamy, understanding his reality is not the same as hers in the moment. Bellamy resumes his struggle, trying to get even footing to stand, and failing.

Clarke has no idea what to do. Mental illnesses are not her area. So she tries to come up with something he would not have been exposed to in the moment he is experiencing.

Grabbing his face roughly, Clarke seizes his head and smashes her lips on his. Bellamy makes a _mmph!_ sound against her mouth, still squirming, but calms in a second. Clarke pulls away in a split moment, breathing heavily, face red. His face still in her hands, Bellamy blinks until his eyes focus in on hers. "Clarke? Oh, god, Princess, what happened to your face?" He pulls his hand up to touch her cheek which is buising, and she winces then pulls back.

"It's not a big deal. Are you okay?" Bellamy checks his limbs, then gazes at Clarke.

"Yeah, I think... what happened? Why do I feel... strange?" he touches his bottom lip with his fingertips, gazing at Clarke.

 "I won't put it lightly. You had an episode."

 

"An episode?" Bellamy repeats.

"Yes, one like PTSD. You thought you were back in the cages in Mount Weather when you were trapped in the net."

Bellamy shakes his head, standing up. "I don't believe you."

Clarke resist the urge to retort, _you don't believe me? Just look at my cheek._ Instead she raises her eyebrow, saying, "We'll discuss this later. At length. But now we need to continue." She steps while still looking at Bellamy who continues to rub his lips, when she can feel the pressure plate under her foot.

"Be-" is all she can get out before her eyes widen in shock as a _thwank_ hits her body. An arrow lodges in her lower abdomen on the right, and a faint thought of Nothing vital there passes her brain as she falls to the ground, bumping the arrow to create more pain.

"Clarke!" the shout wavers as it raises in volume, and Clarke has a clear view of Bellamy start to sprint his ass off to get to her. She almost smiles at the picture.

Then it gets worse.

A soft _thip_ comes from a distance and a dart imbeds itself into Bellamy's leg, and it completely relaxes. He falls to his side, but looks up determinedly at Clarke and starts dragging himself to her. She coughs, clenching the searing pain in her side, unable to move. Another dart hits Bellamy in the other leg, and he completely collapses as he falls to his side, facing Clarke no more than six feet away.

She gazes at him with a soft look in her eyes.

"Bellamy,” she whispers, almost too low for him to hear. "I need to tell you something."

"Of course, princess," he rasps back, cramps taking over his legs.

"I'm sorry I let you pull the lever with me. I'm sorry I sent you in the mountain, and I'm sorry for all this pain I have caused you," she pants out, out of breath.

"Clarke, don't," Bellamy whispers back.

"No, let me-" she breaths in hard - "continue. You are the purest person I have met, with a heart of gold. I shouldn't have let myself give you part of my burden. Now you've got to promise to let it out, and let it fall on me. Because it's over - I am over. I need you to let me leave you in this world okay again."

Bellamy shakes his head. "No. I won't promise, because this is not the end for you." _Thwink_. A dart sticks out from Bellamy's neck, and he gasps. Before he falls unconscious, he repeats, "This is not your end..." and he falls dark.

Clarke lets tears fall out of her eyes as she prays that was only a tranquilizer, and not a paralysis dart. She feels one needle imbed into her arm, and she falls into darkness too.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha... yeah...  
> Honestly I only have a vague idea where this is headed now. I can't decide whether to continue with Bellamy and Clarke's adventure here, or shift for a moment back to a Monty POV.


	6. Trials

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bellamy and Clarke awaken to a new unknown enemy. How will they deal with even more stumbling stones in their journey?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been so long since a post! School started and I was kinda consumed by senior year. But I hope I made up for it with this 5000 word chapter! Also, a due warning: this chapter is SEVERELY unbeta-ed.

 

_I am looking in your eyes and_

_I’m shaken by what_

_I see_

 

_I tremble at the thought_

_the possibility_

_of unknown_

 

_There’s a lot at stake_

_and I’m not feeling brave_

 

_Ringing_

_and ringing and louder_

_and louder in my head_

_  
_ _Can you hear the bells?_

 

_Running in a field of gold, Bellamy chases a trim brunnette with a smile plastered on his face. Octavia looks over her shoulder, laughing in return. As she turns back around, Clarke leaps out of the grass scaring Octavia beyond belief. When Bellamy catches up, he tackles the two, taking all three of them to the ground. Joy encaptures every single one of them, and Bellamy wouldn’t trade this moment with the two most important people in his life for anything._

_Suddenly, the sky turns butty, a dramatic change from the clear blue seconds ago. Rain soaks Bellamy instantly, and as he looks up from his drenched clothes he sees that Octavia has disappeared, leaving Clarke alone in a designated clearing, dry so far, but bleeding from so many places Bellamy can’t count all of them. Thunder cracks from above, and pain courses across Bellamy’s face. His breath shortens, until he almost can’t breathe- he can’t breathe-_

The sensation of relieved pressure brings Bellamy out of his slumbar. Blinking, at first he makes out Clarke on the opposite side of the dirt clearing. She kneels between two tree trunks, her arms forced to full extension. They tied her arms to the trees, so tight they almost cut off all circulation. Her head is bowed, hair draping over face, but she peaks out at Bellamy through some hair stuck together with mud.

Everything in her expression resonates bravery, but everything about her body whimpers defeat.

Bellamy isn’t sure what he is feeling.

A crack to his skull brings him to the people standing before him. As ringing leaves his ear, Bellamy blinks up as his assailant. A man, cloaked in a pure black gown holds a flat piece of wood in his hands, caked with blood. The gown is no unfamiliar sight to Bellamy now, after five days of this torture. The black material drapes from one shoulder down to the ankles of the tall man. A piece of black string tied around his waist shows off his lean physique.

  
Everything about the man embodies cleanliness, fastidiousness, and elegance. The only inclination they live in the woods is the dirt between his pale toes, vulnerable to the environment because of the floppy sandals the he wears. 

How Bellamy wishes he could stomp on those ugly things.

Swallowing blood in his mouth, Bellamy spits out, “What do you want?”

The man, who hasn’t given his name yet, blinks once. Slowly. His pale skin reflects the sunlight into Bellamy’s eyes, making him squint. “Admission.”

Bellamy stares blankly back at Grossling (as Bellamy has dubbed him). “No.”

 _Slap!_ The simple phrase yet again is met with a hit of the stick. Bellamy can feel his face swelling, as a broken cheekbone isn’t allowed time to heal.

The man bends to Bellamy’s height, who is tied on a cross. “You _are_ the prophesied one,” Grossling says. “And you will confess. It has been seen.” He turns, clothes puffing out with his swirl, and he strides away.

Bellamy breathes deeply for a few moments, trying to ignore the pain in his entire body. Fighting the stings, aches, and deep bruises, he finds his voice.

“Clarke?”

Her head remains bent as all her body weight is supported by her shoulders.

“Clarke, please respond.”

Silent. Cold. Nothing. All responses that make Bellamy go numb.

“Clarke! Come on! Are you there?!”

Finally, at a glacial pace, the mudded gold head moves. As her eyes meet Bellamy’s he can see she just drifted to and from another dimension.  She gives him a small smile, trying to bring her eyes in the attempt as well. Bellamy smirks, then cries out in pain as his face burns.

“Bellamy,” Clarke says, no louder than a whisper. “You are gonna be alright. We are going to find a way.” She sighs, twisting her head around, looking at her tied limbs, than looking back to Bellamy.

“I know.” They take a moment to stare at each other, communicating without words. After a minute or so, Clarke’s face starts drooping, and her head falls back down.

“Clarke, how are you holding up?”

He’s asked her that every time they get a chance to speak. She always answers positively, saying she just needs more time to think. To figure out who these people are, and what they mean.

This time she shakes her head, and Bellamy’s world stops again.

“I can’t… I can’t feel my right leg,” she admits, and a sniff reaches Bellamy’s ears. His heart drops, and he wishes he could touch her.

“We will be fine. You will be fine. These people can’t keep this up forever—we will get out of this.”

Clarke looks up again, this time nodding.

“I know. But how much of us?”

The eerie question goes unanswered, as slam echoes across the clearing. Clarke and Bellamy have come to know this sound very well—it always announces the coming of Grossling. 

“No more speaking betwixt the intruders!” Grossling booms as he struts in between Bellamy and Clarke. A triangle is shaped between the threesome, each with an adequate view of each other.

“As you both have been extremely stubborn, it has occurred to me to beseech the presence of the Chosen One. Guards!”

In time to a beat, clanks of metal armor pierce the air as a dozen… knights, it looks to Bellamy? march to form two semi circles around Clarke and Bellamy. In unison, they unsheath short swords and point them at Bellamy and Clarke’s neck, only six inches away. Bellamy almost laughs at what he imagines Clarke’s glare is right now.

“Please rise for the Chosen One.” Bellamy almost rolls his eyes at this. He is being forced to stand, while Clarke can barely support her own two feet. He scoffs, and his shoulder is met with a sting as a knight slices his skin.

“Silence before the Chosen One!” Grossling practically screeches, face turning red.

Bellamy glares at Grossling so hard he can feel the fire behind his eyes. With slow determination, he placed the bottom of his feet on the dirt one by one, finding his balance. From Clarke’s stance it is obvious how much she is favoring her left side.

As Bellamy is scrutinizing Clarke, as one all the knights and Grossling bow. The knights, with their lowered swords on their right, raise one arm in the air diagonally, hands fisted, as their feet slam together. Grossling’s left foot plantar-flexes as he points it to the ground behind him, and he raises both his arms in a similar fashion to the knights’.

As if Nature was holding her breath, the environment is wrapped in complete silence as one of the tallest and most attractive women Bellamy has ever seen walks in front of Grossling, facing Bellamy and Clarke. Her orange hair, waved perfectly, almost touches her lower back, and glints in the crisp light of winter. The toga she wears is a vibrant purple, draped to hug her curves in all the right ways. Gold rings of jewelry confine her arms in various locations, from her upper arm to forearm. Her white skin blinds Bellamy, and he wonders how she maintains such a skin tone.

He also finds he hates her to his core.

Thinned mouth, she remains unmoving as her people remain bowed to her. Gray eyes, almost icy, examine the prisoners. Bellamy stares right back.

As if in slow motion, she commands, “Rise.” The single word is elongated, sounding like a two-syllable word. Grossling and the knights spring into perfect posture, and as Bellamy keeps staring at the woman, he can feel the cold of metal return in proximity to his neck.

“I,” the woman continues, “am Cason.”

 _Every word is so drawn out,_ Bellamy complains in his mind. _Such an annoying drawl._

“I am also,” the woman shifts gazes between Bellamy and Clarke, “the Chosen One."

  
She pauses, then brushes past Grossling to approach Clarke. Her twig fingers reach out to pet Clarke’s hair, barely touching the dirty strands. For three days, they haven’t been able to clean themselves, or go to a latrine. Like animals, they have been forced to excrete where they stand, and every day someone cleans the surrounding dirt. The smell that must be emitted from Clarke should repel the woman, but she remains poised and unflinching. 

“Hair, yellow as a daisy in the sun.”

Cason then forcibly clutches Clarke’s chin, emanating a grimace from Clarke, who glares at Cason for all she is worth.

“And eyes, cold as the sky on a winter afternoon.” Cason tosses Clarke’s head aside, stepping away from her body. Clarke falls limp, the energy of her glare spent.

Grossling paces forward like an eager dog. “But Chosen One, are you not interested in the boy?” His back, bent, makes him leer up to the tall women like a beggar. She simply glances down, without moving her head.

“No.” In a swift movement, she approaches Bellamy. Her eyes examine Bellamy, and he almost shivers under her gaze.

“Why would I be interested in this creature? He is nothing, to me, or to anyone.” The comment strikes Bellamy’s heart, causing an explosive reaction. _I am not nothing! I will never be nothing!_ He almost shouts. But he knows better than to retaliate, and resorts to watching the woman.

Grossing skitters to Cason. “Is he not the Prophesied One?”

Now Cason twirls, the toga flaring dramatically around her as he leer at Grossling. “Him? The Prophesied One?” She throws her head back, teeth glinting in the sunlight as she lets out a laugh. A laugh that sounds like chimes blowing in the wind and nails scratching on tree bark. “Dion, the Prophesied One that woman over there.” She shakes her head towards Clarke. “This poor animal is simply her guardian.” A finger grazes Bellamy’s cheek, causing him to flinch away. Cason tsks. “Now, now, don’t be shy.” She looks at his face, and dirtied arms. “By his skin tone, he must be one of those barbaric Mountaineers. I have no idea why they would send one with this girl, but so be it. He may be of some use in the Collar.” She smirks, lips thin in cruelty. “Let’s see. Take him away!”

Quickly, two knights chop the ropes that hold Bellamy’s limbs to the pole. He collapses, muscles crying throughout his body. They send waves of relief and pain, causing whimpers to escape his mouth.

  
Cason clicks her tongue. “Do not worry.” She caresses Bellamy’s hair. “If you can survive, you will be rewarded.” She then shrugs. “And if you cannot, what a disappointment.” She takes another look at his face. “And a waste.” She nods at the knights. “Carry on." 

The knights grab Bellamy by his arms and start dragging him through the clearing, still facing the limp body of Clarke.

  
“Clarke!” Bellamy finds a part of his voice still strong. Her head snaps up, eyes clearer than he has seen them in a while. A split second looking at those bottomless seas seems like minutes to Bellamy, and he holds his breath trying to remember this girl that has barrelled into his heart. Then her eyes start tearing, and Bellamy knows he does not have that much time.

“I’ll be back for you, Clarke!” He yells at her, fighting the knights’ grip. “Stay strong! You are better than them! Prove it!” Her mouth folds in, but she nods in determination. Her lips start moving, but no noise comes out. Bellamy stares in silence as the movement repeats, and he trying in vain decipher the motion.

 It clicks. _Bellamy! Bellamy!_ She keeps mouthing, voice unable to function.

Fire roars in Bellamy, and he rocks his body forward, breaking free of the knights. He scrambles to his feet, atrophy causing spasms up his legs. If he could just reach her, hold her, free her... what happens to him won’t matter.  
If he could just tell her...

“Clarke, I-oof!”

Bellamy is tackled to the ground, and he wrestles with the knight until he feels a prick on his shoulder. The knight glares at him through his helmet, the piece of metal between his nose strengthening his gaze. A memory of childhood books pierces Bellamy’s mind as he falls unconscious.

 

* * *

 

 

The soft twitter of a bird wakes Bellamy up.

Blinking away the sun from his eyes, he sits up in the bed.

_...bed?_

Abs aching, Bellamy twists his torso to gather his surroundings. The stone room he is in is chilly, but only because of the time of day that Bellamy guesses to be on the earlier side. The stone is polished gray, making the 18 by 20 foot room seem larger. The bed is pristine white, as is the pillow his head had been resting on. They are fluffy, and too comfortable for Bellamy.

A small table next to the bed, a cherry wood, is bare except for a small scratch on middle. A couple feet away from the foot of the bed is a chair of the same wood, facing Bellamy.

Confused, irritated, and scared, Bellamy breathes in out rapidly. _Where am I?_ He asks inside. Then,

“Where am I?!” He shouts. Ripping off the white sheets, he leaps out of bed. His muscles protest, but Bellamy ignores the pangs of discomfort.

The sound of grinding stone catches Bellamy’s attention. To his left, a portion of a wall slides back and to the side, revealing the light of day. Bellamy runs to the hole, until spears appear from the outside. Bellamy raises his arms and backs up as four knights file in, a maiden holding white clothing in her hands walks in after them. 

The knights, once lined up near the door, bring their spears to their sides, hitting the ground in unison.

Now rested, Bellamy takes a good look at the knights. The memory of a book finally makes sense—they remind him of Roman soldiers, with their skirts, tank-top style chest armor, and feathered helmets.

The woman, around 25, is a brunette, with her hair braided meticulously to form a crown on her head. Her skin is pale like all the other men in the room, and she wears a teal gown that drapes purposefully down her body. A yard away from Bellamy she stops, and leans forward slightly, arms extended and head bent.

“Clothes from the Chosen One.”

“Clothes?” Bellamy repeats, reaching out to the white cloths.

The woman raises her head. “Yes, unless you would prefer to remain as you were born. It has been done before.”

 “As you were born?..” Bellamy feels like a parrot. Then he looks down, finally realizing the state he is in—completely naked. In a hurry, he snatches the clothes from the woman, holding the pieces in front of his privates.

The woman smirks at him, placing her arms at her sides. “I won’t complain if you choose to stay bare. Not a bad sight.” She raises an eyebrow at Bellamy. 

In other circumstances, Bellamy would have countered with a flirt of his own. But now he can feel his cheeks redden. “Where are the clothes I was wearing?” he demands, backing away from the woman.

She steps towards him as he creates the distance from them. “Why, I took them off of you, of course. They were disgusting.” She crosses her arms. “I also washed you, if you haven’t noticed that either. Not that bright, are you? That’s okay, I prefer body over mind.”

Bellamy continues backing away until he feels stone on his back, cold against his skin. On either side there is stone. This woman trapped him in a corner.

Only an inch or so shorter than Bellamy, she gets close enough to almost touch nose to nose to Bellamy.

 “You may go,” she orders without looking back. In silence, the soldiers hit the ground with the bottom of their spears once and file out. The door closes, and once again Bellamy is trapped in a cage.

“Now...” the woman glides a finger on Bellamy’s chest, swirling in different patterns. “We are all alone.” Eyes locked to Bellamy, she takes both her hands and squeezes his biceps. Bellamy just gazes empty at her, not getting anything from this. The only thing on his mind is escape, and Clarke.

“Why would they let me be alone with you?” He asks.

The woman grins at him, grazing his jaw. “Oh, they know I enjoy playing with the next Challenger. To get a good feel of how they work.”

  
Although he doesn’t get the entire meaning of that sentence, Bellamy gets the euphemisms. He chooses to ignore them. 

“How do they know I won’t just kill you?”

The woman laughs, finally backing away from Bellamy. “Why, of course they don’t know that. But without me, you will never leave this stone prison. You’ll be doomed to to die in here with me.”

Bellamy reaches out to grab her shoulder and upper arm, squeezing hard. Hard enough to cause ample amount of pain, but none registers on her face.

  
“How come I can’t just torture the way out from you?” He tightens his grip, and yet the woman elicits no response.

Instead, she breaths in, excited. “Ooh, are you into that? Because I can go along with this.”

Bellamy’s mind drops blank as he feels a pressure around his privates, and they stay silent in that position for a while—woman grinning, Bellamy dumbstruck. Finally, he pushes her off of him in a grunt, picking up the dropped clothes on the floor, stepping in the pants.

  
Tying the drawstrings, he growls, “You’re insane.”

The woman huffs. “And you’re no fun. But I think I’ll change that mindset eventually.”

She turns away as Bellamy pulls the shirt over his head. “I see that you just want some answers. That’s fine.” Examining her cuticles, she explains his situation.

Apparently, from Bellamy’s best understanding, the Collar is this Romanesque culture’s form of the Coliseum, where men fight each other to the death in “battles of glory.” However, in contrast to citizen gladiators in ancient times fighting, this civilization imprisons foreigners and convicts, then places faith (and bets) on whomever they believe will win.

The Chosen One, according to the woman, is placing her faith in Bellamy in the coming battles.

“It’s a huge honor,” she says. “While Cason does not denounce these fights, she rarely participates in the activity. So don’t let her down.” The woman walks to where she originally came in from outside, and knocks in a pattern. The stone slides to the side, revealing the outside once again. “Now, it’s time for you to choose your weapon. If you will follow me.” With a small beckon, she walks out. Bellamy, realizing he hasn’t much of a choice, follows her reluctantly. The soldiers form a diamond around the pair, keeping spear-length distance away from Bellamy.

Their journey is a short one. When Bellamy first stepped outside, the sun was so bright it blinded him for a few seconds. But when he adjusted, he came to realize that he had been moved very far away. Now, instead of forest, stone buildings erupted out of the ground, much like the size of Bellamy’s prison, with a foggy haze of something larger in the distance. Three soldiers were placed at each post, and sometimes Bellamy even saw women entering the rooms with food and water.

The sight makes his stomach rumble. He reaches out to tap the woman on her shoulder, but quickly the soldiers deflect his hand with the side of the arrowhead.

Bellamy puts his hands up. “Whoa, whoa. Sorry. Not touching. I get it.”

From the commotion, the woman turns to look at him. “All in due time.” Turning back, she asks, “is there something you want?”

“Yeah, actually. Some food would be nice.”

She laughs. “You’ll get that if you win your first fight. Lots and lots. But not before.”

Bellamy refuses to be treated like an animal. But if were to be treated as such, might as well act like one. Lunging, he dives for the woman, wrapping her torso in her arms. He tackles her to the ground, sitting on top of her, one hand pushing her back down, the other pointing accusingly at her nose. The soldiers, no sign of panic on their faces, all place their spears on various places on Bellamy’s body. However, the woman simply put up a hand, and they relax.

“You really expect me to win in this fatigued state? You are insane. I have no chance if all you do is stack the odds against me.”

The woman laughs underneath him. “Against? Oh, no. Certainly not. You are placed in a class for weaker and smaller fighters. You will rise to the top, when you are in shape. Now, get off me.”

Stunned, Bellamy offers no resistance when soldiers grope his shoulders and pull him off the woman. “Excuse me?”

 The woman brushes her skirt. “Why, you really think the Chosen One would kill her chosen champion so quickly? No. She is going to cultivate you, keep you close, and hopefully you will rise to the occasion.”

Finally, she continues her route to the weaponry. “In Grucía, our battles are done in classes, typically weight classes. Each has an individual champion, and then they go on to face other Class Champions. The winner of those rounds is obviously the True Champion. You have been placed in a lower class than you would be placed in normally, to give you time to return to full strength, and to let the citizens get to know and root for you. Ah, here we are.”

Bellamy looks up from the woman. They had arrived at a large cobblestone building, as long as some of the trees Bellamy climbed near Skai Camp. Surrounding it was a tall metal fence, wrapped in a wire with barbs. At the entrance stood two soldiers, armed with crossbows on their belts and large spikes in theirs hands. The woman walks confidently through the pair, and as they went through the gate, their entourage of guards peel off to stand by the sides of the gatemen.

 “Here, you will be able to select the weapons you wish to use for your battles. You may only take on per fight, but can change between battles. Of course, you can always disarm your opponent and take theirs to fight as well.”

Bellamy is barely listening to her now. On the walls are rows and rows of all sorts of weapons. Short swords, sticks, great axes, long swords, staffs, bows, smitars. They are all of different makings—Bellamy can tell many were from the Greek and Roman eras, but some are clearly Japanese samurai swords, perhaps some Hungarian bows, or Nigerian slingshots. This is a history nerd’s dream to examine each and every weapon.

But now isn’t the time. Bellamy has to focus on getting back to Clarke. Deciding brute force is his strength, Bellamy picks up a battle ax.

Or at least tries to. He starts to grab it, and before it is a couple inches off the rack, he is stopped by a chain locking it to the wall.

  
The woman nods in approval, approaching Bellamy and his weapon. There is no way he could use it at with its constraints, so she must not fear him at all.

 “I see you have made your choice. May I see your hand?” Tentatively, Bellamy offers his left hand to her. She takes it, then slices it across the ax. Bellamy pulls back, holding his bleeding hand to chest, coloring his stark white clothes.

  
“What was that for?” 

The woman starts spreading his blood over the ax. “Now it is yours. Marked in your blood, the ax will fight for you and only you until you discard it for a more worthy partner. I will bring it to you right before the battle. Now, you must go prepare and change out of those stained clothes.” She makes a whistling noise, and three guards come rushing in. Before Bellamy can protest, they slap handcuffs on his wrists, and start dragging him outside.

“Wait! What is your name?” he yells at the woman as he is pulled by his hands.

She smiles  at him, beautiful, but frightening. “Leila.”

He turns  the corner.

The soldiers are taking him to one of those looming structures far away, now more clear as the fog had left. They are almost exact duplicates of Coliseums, but only of different sizes and calibers of impressiveness. Bellamy is taken to one of the smaller ones, pushed through a back door and a small, moist room where he was shoved to sit on a stone bench. Two burly men approach Bellamy, holding white clothes in their hands. They forcibly remove Bellamy’s stained T-shirt for a pure white tank, and even tear off his pants for some white shorts (that, honestly, hugged Bellamy in the wrong places).

The two leave without a word, and a minute later Leila comes in, battle ax in one hand, water in the other. A foot away from Bellamy, she stops.

“Choose.”

Bellamy blinks. “What?”

“Choose. Water, or the weapon.”

Bellamy’s mouth goes dry. Whenever he touches the roof of his mouth with his tongue, it sticks there and he thinks he might choke. With a shaking ( _fuck_ ) hand, he reaches for the water.

But another thought stops him. He won’t survive without a weapon. With a stronger hand this time ( _finally_ ) he wraps his hand around the shaft of the ax.

Leila smirks. “Choice made.” She pours the water on the dirt next to her. “Now, you must battle. Up, and proceed through the door.”

Bellamy looks at the water longingly, then at the door that was just revealed from the rising metal gate on the opposite end of the room. He nods, then proceeds into the light.

A minimal amount of cheers and shouts welcome him as he enters the large arena. As the blinding light becomes tolerable, Bellamy turns in place as he takes in the surroundings.

The arena itself is at least thirty feet in diameter. A wall rises at the ends, at least fifteen feet tall, and stands rise gradually for another thirty feet. However, there are barely any spectators. Forty, perhaps fifty in all.

“Hey, Kongeda scum!”

The shout draws Bellamy’s attention from the overwhelming attention of the arena. A tiny man, completely naked, wields a longsword with two hands in front of his body. His skin is slightly darker than other people’s he has seen in this community, but it is still clear it was from being put out in the sun for days on end, and his normal tone was the paperwhite he’d seen in the upper class citizens.

“Huh?” Bellamy grunts. He hefts the battle ax.

“You heard me correctly. Fucking barbarian, you are! Your kind invaded my village for a shitty sword my cousin stole!” With a roar, he comes running at Bellamy. Bellamy simply sidesteps, and the small naked man rushes past him, swinging the sword down. He trips, and rolls on the ground away from the sword. The crowd jeers at the pathetic man, whom Bellamy is starting to resent.

“I am guessing that whatever sword your cousin stole was pretty important. She shouldn’t have stolen it.”

 The man, on all fours, glares at Bellamy through matted hair. He snarls, and comes running at Bellamy again. Bellamy lifts his ax, and the man comes to a halt, the tip an inch from his chest.

 “Look,” Bellamy says, forcing the man to walk backwards. “I don’t know who you are, and you don’t know who I am. You think I am a Grounder? Fine. But you don’t get to assume Grounders are barbarians. They have a civilization founded, just as you do. They may have more crude traditions, but they aren’t barbaric by any means.” He lets the ax to rest on his shoulder in contemplation. “Now, I’m guessing I’m supposed to kill you. I don’t really want to, but I don’t have much of a choice. And I think I can justify it partially for the things you said about the Grounders.”

  
The man yelps, and moves quickly out of the way of Bellamy’s swing. He moves fast for such a malnourished-looking man. He runs and grabs his sword from the ground, and holds it in front of him once more. 

“Don’t think I’ll be that easy to kill?” Squealing, he raises the sword above his head with both hands, and rushes at Bellamy again. When he is close to Bellamy, Bellamy uses the flat of his blade to stop the man’s attack, then maneuvers the ax in a way to send the sword flying out of his hands. The man falls to the ground, (legs spread unfortunately) and his hand above his head, shaking.

 “Please! They said if I won two matches, I could see my family again,” he cries, tears falling from his eyes.

Bellamy’s heart aches. But he couldn’t die, not here, not today, and especially by this small man.

“I’m sorry, but this fight is over.”

One swing did it.

As the crowd cheers around Bellamy, he wipes the blood from his face.

_For Clarke. If I do well enough, maybe I’ll see her again._

That’s the only thing that kept him going.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can Bellamy handle the relapse of violence? Maybe the thought of Clarke will help.
> 
> Join my next chapter as we find out just what Clarke will go through herself in this cruel civilization, or learn what Camp Skai is doing in their absence. (If you really want, tell me which you would prefer to read first, and I will work on that one more!!!)
> 
> As always, thanks so much for reading!


	7. Falling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once again, Clarke and is torn away from Bellamy, but not by choice this time. What is this weird kingdom, Grucía, and what will The Chosen One Do with her? All Clarke wants to is get back to Bellamy, but can she do that before her sense of self is taken away?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So so sorry it's been a while since an update. Also, I am sorry for my crappy writing. And my shitty world-building.

_ No way out, no one to come and save me _

_ couldn’t fight back _

 

_ I fell on my knees _

  
  


As she sees Bellamy’s body being dragged away, Clarke can’t help the tears that fall from her eyes. That is the most helpless she has ever seen him, surrounded by some of the largest men she has ever seen. 

Cason glances at her, and tsks. “I doubt you’ll ever see him again. He is destined for a very different path from yours now.” She leans down to examine Clarke’s face. “Oh, that’s a shame. You love him, don’t you?”

Clarke’s glare fades as she takes in these words. Does she? She certainly feels something for Bellamy, but she couldn’t name it. That, or she didn’t want to admit it. 

But that doesn’t matter now. She has to get out of this, save herself.

And then save Bellamy. 

“What do you want?” she spits out.

Cason laughs, straightening her spine. “Why, your spirit crushed, of course. Dion, please bring her to the palace.”

Dion nods, and snaps his fingers as Cason retreats back into the forest. Soldiers cut her ropes, and Clarke catches herself by her wrists, which was clearly a mistake. A crack resonates through her arm, and she collapses on her left arm, causing even more pain. The soldiers grab her by the arm bits, then bring her on to her feet. She now collapses on her right leg. Since she talked to Bellamy in the before, some feeling has returned, but not much. 

“On your feet,” growls the soldier to her left.

Clutching her left arm to her chest, Clarke musters the strength to push herself up on her left leg, her right leg supported by her tiptoe. They start to walk away, and one pushes her from behind.

From the trees, a carriage emerges. It is open, and covered in elegantly carved wood. Cason sits majestically inside, smiling down at Clarke. 

Clarke is too transfixed at the sight of the four, ragged, dirty, chest-bare men that support the carriage by poles that ran on the sides of the carriage. Their legs did not spasm at all, and instead seemed twice the size of their waists, where their ribs were showing. 

“Care to join me?” Cason gestures to the bend opposite hers.

Clarke takes another look at the men who all try to hide their emotions at the thought of even more weight to support. 

It killed her to say this. “No. I’ll walk.” 

  
Cason laughs. “I enjoy your pride. But I don't think you are in any sort of condition for that. Shom?” 

  
A guard lifts Clarke and tosses her into the carriage. The four men grunt with the sudden extra weight, but then soon started trotting along.

“Thank you,” Cason says, “for joining me. I think you’ll enjoy the sights.”   
For the first twenty minutes, Clarke learns about who Carson is, and what civilization she is a part of.

Grucía, apparently, is the name of the country that spans for miles and miles in all directions, as they are in the capitol, Artemis. Cason explained that they are descendants of man that survived the Hadian War (as they call it, Clarke soon realized it was the nuclear war) by staying in an underground bunker for decades. The only things brought with them from the surface were books on Roman and Greek culture, and when they resurfaced based the new civilization on the ideals from those books. 

Cason, as the Chosen One, is the ruler of Grucía, as the gift of Sight is passed down from mother to daughter. She is unaware of when the Sight first emerged, but that knowledge has been lost, according to Cason.

But in a prophesy Cason’s Saw, a girl with golden hair and icy eyes would come to Grucía about 100 years after the war, and bring the fall of the Sight.

And Cason can not have the last Chosen One be her.

“But,” Cason says, “I am  _ so _ against killing in cold blood. So instead, I’m choosing to simply make you feel dead  _ inside. _ Great compromise, right?” Cason chuckles to herself. “Ooh, here is the Great Coliseum. That’s where men face against the Great Champion for honor and glory.”   


_ Champion? _ Clarke is pretty sure that’s the word she heard Cason used in relation to Bellamy. Clarke stores that thought away for later.

She drowns out Cason as she drawls about the history of the construction for the next twenty minutes. She sees now the sweat beading down the four men’s backs, and feels horrid for adding more burden on them.

They finally reach the palace, and what a palace it is. The building reaches the sky with pillars reaching towards the clouds, and roof made of pure marble is supported by the pillars. The wings of the palace curve around the gardens that gleam in the light, grass glittering green, fountains flowing in shining water. Statues carved of beautiful women line the path to the door of the palace. They range from fully naked to covered in layers of clothes that seem like they cannot be made of stone. 

“Welcome to the Palace of Cleo!” Cason says excitedly, clapping her hands twice. At the front door, she steps down with the help of a soldier's hand. Clarke clammers down of her own accord. Her leg is killing her, and she is pretty sure that her stitched up stomach--of which she found out in the carriage--tore open.

“I think you will find the Palace a nice area of residence for the rest of your life, don’t you?” Cason asks. She delicately starts walking up the stone steps to the main doors, clearly with the attention Clarke will just follow. Feeling as though she has no choice, she does.

“What do you plan on doing with me here?” she asks. 

Cason laughs. “Whatever comes to mind, really. And I’ve had some really good thoughts. What’s the best way to break a woman?”

Chills go down Clarke’s spine. Cason’s tone implies terrible ideas in Clarke’s head, and she tries to shake them out. The result is an awful headache, which she is sure is from dehydration. 

At some point, they had reached a main chamber of the palace. Clarke is practically dragging her foot along, clutching her stomach as the bleeding intensifies where the arrow struck her. But all she can pay attention to is the enormous line of people, clamoring, waiting. For what?

As she soon finds out, all of these citizens come from everywhere in Grucía. They bring arguments, debates, and conflicts concerning their small lives to the decisions that will affect entire cities. And Cason helps all of them, with the pretense that her Sight leads them to the right answer.

Several times, Clarke looks for a good time to interject and ask for water, a chair, a bandage, anything, but every time she is about to open her mouth, Cason strikes her with a gaze so demeaning Clarke shuts down. She has never felt anything like it, and she vows never to allow anyone to have that much power over her. At least after this instant. 

What seems like hours later, Dion, the pale man, cuts off the line and then the last citizen heads out of the palace, escorted by some soldiers. Cason looks pleased with her work, apparently having made her kingdom better by resolving a fight between a farmer and his chicken, but to each their own.

Cason stands from her throne, and swishes away into a hall, quickly followed by handmaidens and guards. Clarke tries to follow, but fails. Dion approaches, and nods to a soldier standing at the wall.

“Take the Chosen One down to the dungeon. Get Edwin to clean her up, and bring some food. Cason will want to see her in the morning.” 

The soldier nods. He hoists Clarke to her feet, and starts pushing her to her new home.

 

* * *

It turns out, Cason doesn’t want to see Clarke in the morning. Or the next. Not for many days. Clarke keeps a tally, but without windows, she loses count of the days in the dusty downstairs. Ewen, the medical expert of Grucía, has by now healed her abdomen wound, but her right leg remains lame, to the point where Clarke now relies on a cane to move around. Not like she does much moving, anyways.

After many more days, Clarke is taken up to the main throne room. Cason sits majestically, drenched in silk of violet that looks horrendous on her abnormally pale skin. 

“Ah, Clarke,” she says, rising. “I have someone I would like you to meet.”

Clarke’s mind jumps directly to one person. “Bell-” but she stops short as she sees a man emerge from behind the throne. He is much taller than she, of medium build, with a square jaw and bleached hair. His toga is an emerald green, making him seem tanner than he really is. 

“This is Warren. You will answer his beck and call when needed, and do whatever he desires. That is all. Now leave.”   
  
Warren bows, extending his leg backwards, lifting up his toga slightly, then approaches Clarke. She has no time to  protest before he clicks a collar on her neck. A leash is attached, and he pulls on her until she must move.

“No way! I will not let you do this to me!” she spits at Cason as she clutches her throat, trying to create some space in between the smelly leather and her skin.

“Even if you don’t let me, it will still happen. See you some other time, Clarke.” Cason waves her hand, and she is flanked by guards, maidens, Dion, and others alike, as she glides out the chamber. Clarke looks to Warren, who does not look back at her as he drags her to his quarters in the palace.

“This will be fun,” he taunts her, snapping the leash to smack her in the face.

It is anything short of enslavement.

A month into her new predicament, Clarke’s weight has dropped dramatically. Warren makes her run around getting him food, helping him change, care for his room, and fetch any sorts of supplies he needs. She helps him bathe, rubbing his waxed back with lotion, and massaging when he needs some more relaxation. 

To Clarke’s best knowledge, Warren is Cason’s treasurer. To which she is sure means he takes a considerable amount of money for himself, and loafs around the rest of the time.

“Clarke, grab my quill and parchment,” Warren calls from the room adjacent to his bedroom, where she makes his bed. A girl flops around in it, fast asleep, exposing much of her chest. Clarke covers her with some sheets.

She limps over to Warren, delivering the items. All the movement has done nothing to help heal her leg, and she is pretty sure all hope is lost at this point. The revelation leaves her empty, that she will require aid for the rest of her life. 

  
At least she still has a life so far.

Warren sniffs, and makes a gagging sound. “Gods! You reek.” He rings a small bell on his desk. A little boy scuffles in, clothes dragging on the ground. “Take Clarke here to the baths.”

Bath?

The last time she had had a bath was when she returned to Skai Camp. Just the idea of warm water wrapping around her produced a smile to her face.

Turns out, she shouldn’t expect anything. The boy simply leads her to an outdoor toilet area, hands her a bucket, and tells her to return in five minutes.

Removing her clothes, Clarke realizes that she is really all alone. People walk near her, other servants, perhaps slaves like her, but she has no one. No one to come and save her. 

  
Clarke fills the bucket, and pours the whole thing over her body. The freezing water seems to wake up something inside her.

  
Falling to her knees, Clarke rinses her hair once more and scrubs herself down. She experiments the range of motion of her right leg, which seems re-energized with the cold water. 

Maybe is something in the water. Maybe Clarke just has finally had enough. No matter what, she decides it’s time to fight back. Find a way to escape. Rebel. Whatever it takes.

_ And then what?  _ She asks herself.

_ And then, we get Bellamy. _

Putting her old clothes back on, she returns to Warren to find that he put new clothes on his bed that is now vacant of that random girl. It is a drastic difference from her brown wool clothes. These have a slight shimmer, tinted gold in a subtle way.

“I am having guests tonight,” Warren comments, sipping from a goblet.

Clarke says nothing. She learned in the first week, Warren likes to pretend to talk to her, but doesn’t really want any responses.

“Be on your best behavior. I want to show you off.”

Something about that wording unsettles Clarke, but she ignores it. Best to focus on a plan for her escape.

  
Warren makes her prepare appetizers of cheeses, wine, and grapes. She puts covers on furniture, picks up flowers from another palace servant, and helps Warren choose what to wear. That evening, a huge party arrives.

Men and women pour into Warren’s quarters, bringing a loud and stuffy atmosphere with them. A fat man chuckles with a short woman, who makes some comment on how the Collar fighting is getting more and more boring as the days go by, as Cason’s champion climbs the ladder of Class Champions.

Food, drinks, more food, and more drinks, are all Clarke touches for hours, trying to keep the indulgent people satisfied. At some point, Warren excitedly starts cheering, as a horde of women dressed scandalously walk in the doorway.

“You always know how to throw a great get-together,” one woman comments, already taking a girl to one of Warren’s private rooms.

The rest of the women start dancing and singing, entertaining the party as Warren claps appreciatively.

In midst of all the commotion, one man, about forty, to Clarke’s calculations, still nimble, but graying in his short hair, comments, “What about your servant girl?”

“Oh, she’s Cason’s,” Warren replies, playing with a girl on his lap, who has her legs surrounding his hips. The man searches through his clothing, pulls out several gold coins, and places them on Warren’s side table next to his seat. Immediately, the girl on his lap starts to grind harder, bites his earlobe and whispers something that excites him. Warren grabs the money, gives it to the girl, and starts to lead her to his bedroom. Clarke watches in horror as the other man locks gazes with her.

  
“She’s all yours for the night; hell, tomorrow morning, if you desire,” Warren says, and closes the door behind him.

  
The next hours are torture for Clarke. And she feels much, much, more dirty then before she took her bath that day.

* * *

After that first night, Warren has more and more parties frequent his quarters, and more and more patrons wish to “try out his new servant girl,” woman and men alike.

One day, about a month later, when Clarke is washing Warren’s sheets, he enters the washroom and sits on a chair next to Clarke.

He simply gazes at her, wondering. Clarke avoids eye contact all together, scrubbing the sheets more harshly than before.

After a minute, Warren reaches out, and takes one of Clarke’s hands. This surprises Clarke, who finally looks up. Warren rubs his thumb over her hand. 

“Leave the sheets. Evan will take care of them later.” He lifts Clarke by the hand, and leads her back to the main chambers. Clarke is still confused when they enter his bedroom, and he shuts the door.

  
All thoughts leave her mind when he approaches her and starts kissing her on the neck. She freezes, staring at the wall behind Warren. He gropes her, keeps kissing her.

“I’ve heard that you’re amazing,” he says between kisses, between feeling up her ass. “And I know that you’re beautiful. I can’t have anyone stealing you away from me anymore. You’re mine.” 

  
Clarke remains still, fear seizing her.

Warren leans down, grabs the hem of her clothing, and lifts it over her head, exposing her body. Warren gapes in appreciation of her chest, as most of the men and women who have enjoyed her company thus far have. In a flash, he grabs one of her breasts in her hands, wraps an arm around her, and brings her close.

“You’re mine,” he repeats, growling, as he seizes her in another kiss.

Despite her gag reflex triggering, Clarke bashfully admits to herself his kisses are one of the best she has had in awhile. His eyes closed during the kiss, Clarke takes the time to really look at Warren. His height matches that of Bellamy’s, although his skin tone is many shades lighter. She doesn’t know what Bell’s hands would feel like but  _ oh… _ if this is anything close, Clarke will take it.

In the days and weeks without him, Clarke’s heart hasn’t stopped aching. When Cason suggested she loved Bellamy, but she wasn’t too sure at the moment. And there was no time to think about it. But recently, alone in her small room at night, she’s had plenty of time. And she knows that she misses his smirk, his chorkle of a laugh, the way he would support her without her needed to communicate what she needed. And if that doesn’t qualify for love, what does? 

Clarke loves Bellamy. He’s all she thinks about. She needs to get back to him. To save him, she needs to save herself. 

But right now, Warren might be able to ease the pain. 

Clarke closes her eyes, finally wrapping her arms around Warren. She raking one hand in Warrens hair, making him pull her closer to him. He dips them, deepening the kiss, not asking for permission when he shoves his tongue in her mouth, although she relents. She tries to imagine Warren as Bellamy, his passion quiet, then exploding with consent on both sides.

Bellamy wouldn’t mind Clarke taking control, she thinks.

She forces Warren back up straight, lips still locked, and jumps (which proves hard with her lame leg) to cradle his hips. Warren takes steps back, surprised by the action, but able to take her light weight. He smiles against her lips. And then he leads them to his bed.

 

* * *

 

She had been terribly mistaken when she thought Warren could be a substitute for Bellamy. He likes… interesting things in bed, Clarke discovered, which always involved some sort of binding on her part, with pain soon to follow in many different forms. She tried to resist in the beginning, but in her weakened state, Clarke had to way to overpower Warren.

Sitting up in the bed, she can’t take the time to cherish how soft it is as Warren lays next to her. He wakes up with her shift, and he smiles an evil grin.

He takes her face, smacking her roughly. Still clutching her by her cheeks, he asks, “Ready for another go?”

Clarke is too afraid to answer in the negative, and simply nods as Warren climbs over her.

 

* * *

 

Now, a two months later, Clarke is tired, but depressingly used to the treatment. The worst part is now she has to pretend even harder to be enjoying herself, to please her Warren, as he has taken to beating her when she fails to make him happy.

One day, she wakes up with whip marks crossing her back, making it terribly hard to simply squat and use the bucket to relieve herself. 

The next, her shoulders ache from having her movement be restricted. And that time, Warren had invited another man with them, who was more than pleased to join and contribute to Clarke’s torture.

In a morning, Clarke wakes up to the familiar feel of Warren between her legs, touching her all over, annoyingly already close to putting her over the edge even in her loathing of him. She knows he would want the same, so she pulls his head up, turns them over, and crawls down to his rather small dick. (Not that she really thought about it, but perhaps that contributed to the shattering of her imagining Warren as Bellamy.)   
  
Warren smiles, shaking his head. He tugs her back up, making her sit on him rather than take him in her mouth. Before she starts moving, he grabs her shoulder with such force that will add to her bruises.

“Cason wants to see you this evening, so I want to be able to get a good look at you. It might be my last,” he says, a sickly sense of love attached to his voice.

The thought of Cason seeing Clarke in this demoralized state, feeling as though she ought to peel off her skin layer by layer until any trace of Warren was removed, caused her despair to no end. But she could see no way of preventing the inevitable. So she just nods, then let the rest of the experience take her.

Evening arrived both too soon and too late.

“What a great day, huh, Prophesized One?” Cason welcomes Clarke back to the throne room. Clarke is on her knees, pushed to the ground by a soldier. “Today, you have the absolute pleasure of joining me to the final Collar game—the Battle of True Champions!”

Guards all around start clanging their weapons with this announcement, but stop with a raised hand from Cason.

“Let us depart at once, lest we get poor seats for this engaging battle.”

Clarke realizes this was some poor joke later, as a reserved section obviously meant for Cason is left perfect and has servants waiting for them when they arrive.

A small indent in the Great Coliseum's side creates a atrium-like space for Cason and her entourage, metal spikes on the corners creating shade. It is placed almost near the bottom of the seating, giving Clarke a good view of the great arena. It is absolutely  _ huge _ , and nearly every seat is filled. Cason did mention on the way over, that many citizens from all over the country come and visit for this day, as it only arrives once every two years. The rest of the population remains at a standstill, waiting for news on how the battle went.

When they arrive, Cason first tests out the cushiony chair, then rises as Clarke remains standing by the seating. She tried to step forward with Cason, but quickly a servant came up, took one of her hands, and chained her to an area behind Cason’s chair. The chain is long enough for her to stand directly to the side of the exuberant chair.

Cason exits the area covered by tarp. Cheers explode and then disappear when Cason looks at her people.

“Citizens of Grucía,” Cason shouts, her voice echoing across the arena. “Let the final battles for True Champion begin!” More cheers explode in Clarke’s ears, but she has no energy to cover them up.

As Cason returns to sit down, a small door at the opposite end of of the fighting arena opens, and a figure runs out of the tunnel.

Some man shouts from the tunnel, “Bellamy Blake, the Chosen One’s Champion!”

Clarke can feel her eyes widen, compressing the dark circles underneath. Cason must be messing with her. She must have known about Warren’s moral code with his slaves, and must know that just the possibility of seeing Bellamy, and then having that taken away, would be a kill blow.

But the person that is deliberately walking towards center arena has a hunched-over saunter that Clarke would recognize anywhere. The hair is nicely groomed, even as it is more grown out, and the shining muscles under the dark skin look like home to Clarke. Yet, something is off. 

“Come forth, Champion Blake,” Cason beckons. The figure becomes larger in the approach, and Clarke realizes that something is wrong. His step is confident, but not forceful. Like the next move forward doesn’t hold any promise, any hope. It is just the next thing to do. He looks up at Cason, as it is clearly part of the ceremony. His gaze doesn’t shift to Clarke, but she can see the look in his eye. It looked the same right after Charlotte died, and Clarke’s heart sinks.

“As my chosen Champion, you must endure the most to become the True Champion here in the Great Coliseum, home of the Collar. Send in the first competitor!”

From the same entrance as Bellamy’s, a man wielding two axes steps emerges. Bellamy turns, hefting his own ax. Clarke can see him take a deep breath.

“Horacio, Champion of Class Theta Gamma!” The man from the tunnel shouts again. 

_ “Commence!” _

With a roar, Bellamy and Horacio charge at each other, and the spectators joined it. Clarke simply watches with horror.

The pair meet slightly closer to Horacio’s side, as Bellamy is faster—the result is a clang of blades, Bellamy forcing Horacio back with his larger momentum. However he only blocks one of two axes, and as Horacio fights to gain his balance back he strikes with his left ax into Bellamy’s side, who dodges by swinging around Horacio to his back. At the same time, Bellamy slices upward, creating a huge gash in Horacio, who howls in pain, toppling to the ground.

And before Clarke can even blink once during the entire exchange, Bellamy lifts his large ax above his head with two hands, and thrusts it down with a grunt. Once doesn’t finish the job, and Bellamy needs another chop before the head finally rolls away from the body.

Clarke feels like she can’t breathe.  _ This is what they’ve been doing to Bellamy this whole time? _ she thinks. That thought makes her stomach clench. She can’t imagine what Bellamy must have gone through in fight after fight. She knew that he wanted his days of committing deaths to end, and he got the opposite of his wish here. 

Bellamy stares at the body for a few seconds as tremors of electricity still run through the muscles, and finally stop. He looks up to Cason, eyes still stone.

“Is that all you got?!” he bellows, lifting his ax in the air. “Don’t insult me!"

Clarke can see Cason grin without teeth, as she beckons with her hand. Bellamy turns back to the arena door.

“Justeen, Champion of Class Beta Iota!” 

This time, Bellamy does not wait for the commencement to be official. He lunges for Justeen, a man of about Clarke’s height, who slithers past Bellamy’s attack with ease.

This smaller man turns out to be harder for Bellamy to beat than Horacio, with is small throwing knives puncturing Bellamy in various places, but Bellamy overcomes this obstacle eventually.

Cason keeps letting more and more victims fight Bellamy, including one duo, but he takes them all down. He looks strong, but Clarke can clearly see him slowing down with more and more fatigue.

On the last man to face Bellamy had been slightly taller than him --Clarke would guess around around six foot two-- with muscles that looked like the sculpture of David, in both size and color. They had fought for almost ten minutes, and excruciatingly long time for combat. Ramses, what was his name, had a long sword, which caused Bellamy some difficulty and more lacerations on the skin that Clarke wished she could stitch up.

Bellamy kneels on the dirt, panting, as two men hoist and take away Ramses’ body. Cason rises, and walks forward beyond the tarped area. She raises her hands to stop the cheers that threaten to start.

“Grucía, the time has come for the final battle! My chosen champion, Bellamy Blake, will now fight my previous champion, veteran of many years… True Champion Gregor of Grucíalinda!”    
  
There was a  _ boom _ as voices all around start cheering, chanting Gregor’s name, as the largest man Clarke has ever seen walks through the tunnel Bellamy came from earlier. His black skin glistens against the setting sun, already sweaty. He has tattoos across his legs, lines of words swirling up and down his calves and thighs. On his back he carries a sword, in one hand he has a shield, and the other another sword. Bellamy still only has his ax.

Cason whips her head around and fixes Clarke with a knowing look. 

“Prepare to have your soul finally crushed and ruined. The man you love will know die an awful death, and you have no way of preventing it.” She turns back around to the men in the arena. She lifts a hand, and pulls it down while shouting at the top of her lungs,  _ “Commence!” _

Clarke lurches forward, her hands pulled back by the chain. She stretches her body, shouting for Bellamy. 

“Constrain her,” Cason snarls at a handmaiden, who pushes Clarke back behind Cason’s chair. Another soldier comes forth and shoves her to her knees, causing pain to shoot up her right leg. But she pushes through it for Bellamy.

“Bellamy!!  _ Bellamy!”  _ Clarke yells at the top of her lungs as he and Gregor circle each other. Clarke can see Bellamy turn his head slightly before the soldier stuffs a rag in her mouth. In her panic, Clarke didn’t realize she could be the result of Bellamy’s death via distraction. She is glad she is gagged, because if she could speak, she would still be screaming for Bellamy.

Body cold with trepidation, Clarke watches as Bellamy lunges forward for the first strike, easily deflected. The two practically fence, lunging forward back and forth, each blocking each other with well-developed athleticism. Eventually Gregor seems to get bored, and starts moving forward with each lunge, backing Bellamy into the wall. Fans bang on the boards above his head, but Bellamy remains focused as sweat pours down his face.

Clarke can see Gregor whisper something to Bellamy, who closes his eyes in defeat, accepting his fate. Clarke surges against her chains, her screams forever muffled by the rag, taking away her last connection will Bellamy.

Gregor raises his sword, poised for the killing blow. Right as he swings down—

_ Thwak! _

Gregor yowls in pain, arrow protruding from his hand, causing him to drop the sword, stepping back from Bellamy. Bellamy pops opens his eyes, pushes Gregor away from him, and scurries away, clutching his side, where a would bleeds (Clarke had not seen that injury occur). Yet Bellamy did not seem to be bothered by the wound—he remains transfixed by a figure now in the middle of the arena. A beautiful, tall, women, with blonde locks that flow to her waist, bellowing in the breeze, grasping a bow with ease, notching an arrow. 

The arrow loaded, she snaps her head up to stare at Cason, who has risen to the edge of the stands, white knuckling the wall. 

“Who do you think you are?” she growls, voice dirty with hatred, “to interrupt this battle? To injure my True Champion?”

The woman starts walking forward, bow faced downward. “You do not know who I am?” she asks, head cocked to the side. “Why, I cannot say I am surprised. But I know who you are; everyone knows who you are. Why you are the Chosen One! The One Who Carries the Sight!”

“Yes.” Cason says, unsure of what is happening. Cason is clearly unable to grasp the situation, the amount of agency that was given to this woman with her simple “yes”.

About twenty feet from the wall, the woman stops. “How about that woman behind you? Why don’t you tell your people,” the woman gestures at the stands, spinning 360 o , “who that helpless person is.”

The silence that had captured the audience grows thicker, even as some muttering starts with this command. Without looking back, Cason beckons Clarke, who is led forward by a soldier. She limps, falls at Cason’s side, head down.

“This is—” Cason starts,

_ “Clarke!!”  _ Bellamy wails, making Clarke look up. A smile, the first one in ages, forms. Bellamy struggles to stand, dragging himself towards Clarke, and the moment is so similar to the last time they were parted, that Clarke starts tearing up again. 

The woman ignores Bellamy, basking in the horrid gasps coming from all sides as Grucía sees Clarke in her disheveled state.

“This,” the woman says, voice echoing with power, “is what your  _ leader _ does when she thinks her reign is in peril. She tortures, hurts, and destroys the lives of those that just want to go home.” The woman gazes at Bellamy, then returns to look at Cason. “You are so fragile, terrified, you will try and control anyone that you can to feel like you have power. Well, no more.” She lifts the bow, aiming for Cason. “Tell me, O Chosen One, did you expect this?” She sends an arrow flying. Cason dodges, seeing the arrow coming from a mile away, and the arrow hits a soldier, taking him down. The other guards start to clamor around, but Cason keeps them steady.

“Will you tell me your name?”

The woman smirks, putting a hand on a hip. “Joyce, the Prophesied One. The One destined to end you.”

Cason shakes her head. “No, that is this defeated woman over here,” she apathetically gestures at Clarke. 

“No, you just knew it was a foreign girl with blonde hair. Well guess what, that prophesy was planted. Guess what, Grucía? The Sight is a  _ lie! _ ” Excited murmurs and trepidations pulse around the Collar. “My people, the ones who taught me all I know, gave you that tip ages ago, and look where it led you. To carry yourself in fear, pretending you have a grasp on this kingdom. You might have even convinced yourself you have the sight. But you were wrong. This… Clarke is not the one of golden hair and icy eyes. I am. I have been since I was a teenager.” She nocks another arrow. “Let us be honest at this moment… you had no idea this was going to happen. And your illusion will shatter as I end your life.” She lifts up to aim at Cason, who is paralyzed in fear. 

“Guards!” Cason yells, and as a unit, many soldiers start pouring into the arena, hopping over the wall. Joyce pulls out double swords, warding them off. Cason laughs. 

“There is no way anything you have said is accurate. I do have the Sight, and you will not be the one to end my life.”

“I guess even you were right about that,” Clarke snarls, and as Cason turns around, having forgotten about Clarke, and with all her might, thrusts a sword through her abdomen up into her chest. While the exchange had been going on, Clarke dragged herself to the fallen guard, who still had the arrow sticking from his eye, and she had taken his sword.

“B-b…” Cason garbles, collapsing on the ground. Clarke shoves her aside, sword sticking out of her body. The guards in the arena stop fighting as they notice their dead leader, dropping their swords. Joyce breaks apart, and helps Clarke down as she rushes to the wall. 

  
As Joyce hefts Clarke over the wall (as she is so light at this point), Clarke asks, “That first shot wasn’t a mistake, was it? You meant for me to do that?”

Joyce nods. “You seemed like the resourceful type. I am glad I took a chance on you.” She places a hand on Clarke’s shoulder, looking around as people everywhere start, in every sense of the phrase, freaking out. “You may want to get out of here, it’s going to start getting hectic.” Joyce leaves her side, yelling at the citizens who witnessed what happened, urging them to spread the word. 

Clarke supports herself with another sword, all weight on her left foot. She listens to Joyce, fading in and out at the words  _ change _ ,  _ revolution _ , and  _ falsehood. _

“Clarke!”

She looks up, and sees Bellamy run and stop short right in front of her. She can’t believe it, that she finally can look into his deep brown eyes, admire his freckles that have gotten more prominent. Feelings swarm her, so overwhelming, and Clarke topples to the ground, practically dry heaving, simultaneously sobbing and gasping breaths of relief.

“Clarke, Clarke, it’s all right,” Bellamy leans down to Clarke’s level, patting her hair back, rubbing her shoulders, and finally bringing her into her arms. “It’s alright now, it’s okay… I’ve got you.” Clarke doesn’t register his embrace for a few seconds, and when she does, she wraps him up so tightly he gasps slightly, but she never wants to let him go. She shoves her face in his neck, breathing him in. 

The tang of blood shoots her back into reality, the shouting that is all around them, the blood that is seeping through Bellamy’s shirt. Of course, Bellamy knows what she is thinking when she pulls away.

“It’s just a flesh wound,” he jokes. “Already stopped bleeding. Now let’s go,” he pulls her up, and Clarke tries to hide her lame leg, but just can’t push through. Without words, Bellamy supports her, knowing she would not want to be picked up completely, and they walk past Gregor, who has an arrow sticking out of his chest, and into the tunnel that Bellamy exited to become the True Champion.

He never looks back, and only feels the warmth of Clarke as they start to make their way back home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :D so that's Grucía! And Bellamy and Clarke finally are back together... maybe they will also finally have some downtime?


	8. Souls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bellamy decides, against his nature, that he needs to have a heart-to-heart with Clarke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maybe Clarke and Bellamy will seem OOC here, but I think this was needed and I honestly think they would do this. But lmk what you think too, I would love to know.

_Listen to the sound_

_Rolling in the soul down under_

_Far beneath the skin it rumbles_

_The rhythm inside is dead in us_

_I’m gonna get that rhythm back._

 

Bellamy does not get the time alone he desires with Clarke after the events at the stadium. As he carried Clarke out of the arena, his strength was so exhausted they had to stop, and they were immediately surrounded by Cason soldier’s. After being taken back to the palace, they were taken to the dungeons. As they were being locked up, the Joyce’s people rescued them, and took them to Joyce. Horses, with packs of food and water were given to them, best wishes offered, and Clarke and Bellamy were sent on their way along with one navigator, Justin.

With Clarke’s lame leg, she couldn’t ride a horse on her own, so she sits behind Bellamy as he follows Justin on his own stallion. Justin is not much of a talker, commenting on what he is reading on his map time to time. Clarke rests her arms around Bellamy timidly, as if she is scared of the human contact, frequently scooting back so she isn’t completely smashing their bodies together. It hurts him slightly, but she doesn’t say anything about it, and he does not want to broach the subject. What he wants to say, he cannot even figure out how to put into words. So instead, he points out to Clarke the beauty of the scenery they pass. He gestures to a mountain in the distance, covered in green so thick with the coming spring; he nudges her when he sees wild turkeys sprint past the horses, laughing at the noises they make. Clarke responds in a quiet manner. Sometimes he can feel the smile appear on her face when she is resting her head on his shoulders, he can feel her chuckle in appreciation, but nothing is too exciting.

At the end of the first day of travel, Bellamy had offered to sleep in the same roll with Clarke. She instantaneously flinched, hugging herself in an attempt to cover the reaction. I’ll be okay, was the reply.

As dusk approached on the fifth day of travel, their guide told them that another two miles north and they would reach Camp Skai. He bids them adieu, turning back around to head back to Grucía. Clarke looks exhausted, so Bellamy mentions making camp, so they can gather energy before they return to their family. She agrees.

As Clarke settles into her sleeping bag as Bellamy lights a fire, he watches her quizzically. He has noticed (not that he had been watching _that_ closely), that whenever her shirt rides up, lines mark her back, some redder than others. Her wrists are slightly raw, and Bellamy had thought that had only been caused from being chained up when he had been fighting, but he knows now that the damage was too much for just that small period of time. Every time he tries to take her hand, she finds a way to withdraw from him, coming up with some excuse.

The stones don’t ignite at first, but eventually Bellamy gets a fire going. He looks back up at Clarke, who stares dazedly at him.

“Clarke,” Bellamy whispers. Her eyes snap back into reality, and then she looks back down, timid once more. Bellamy stand up, knees cracking. He scoots his sleeping bag closer to hers, then sits on it. Clarke watches warily.

He still can’t think of the right thing to say. It is obvious she won’t start, so he decides to do what he hates—to talk about himself.

“After they took me away, I was taken to be turned into Cason’s next champion. At first, I thought I got lucky. I got new clothes, good food. I was hopeful. But quickly, I realized that of course, that wasn’t the case.” Clarke plays with her fingernails. “They made me choose a weapon at once, and tossed me into an arena. The first man I killed just wanted to see his family again.” With that, Clarke looks back up, eyes full of sorrow. “The next month, they trained me. In a strict regimen, they forced me to wake up early in the morning, join a crew to do labor for hours. They wanted me to build muscle mass as well as use me. If I faltered, they would punish me by tying me up to a tree at sundown and do a multitude of things to me. One time, they let a group of teenagers throw fruit at me. Another time, they cut my arms. Other times, they would abuse me mentally by reminding me how worthless I was without you.

The next month, I was thrown into the arenas again. The men they first sent against me might  as well have had death sentences, as I going was the obvious winner. Seeing the dread on their face when they first saw me was awful. As the weeks progressed, my opponents got stronger, more skillful, smarter. It got harder and harder to keep going, with each kill.”

“Bellamy…” Clarke falters, a tear forming.

“The only thing that kept me going was you, Clarke. I kept reminding myself that if I could get through whatever they forced me to do, I could see you again.” He rubs the tear off her cheek, ecstatic inside when she doesn’t move away. “Clarke, you mean so much to me. We’ve been through so much together. From the Grounders, Mount Weather… Just the thought of you has always reassured me. I finally got you back, and I don’t even have all of you.” Bellamy stills cups her face, gently rubbing her jawline with his thumb. “Clarke, please don’t pull away from me again. I… I need you. Please,” he begs, his voice catching. Clearing his throat, he pulls away, self-conscious about this declaration.

Clarke thrusts her body across the gap that separates them, engulfing Bellamy in a full-body hug. He gasps in surprise, toppled backward, falling on his pad. Clarke just wraps her arms around his torso, on top of him. He embraces her back, thankful to be allowed to show this affection. She sobs into the crook of his neck as he rubs her back.

“I’m so sorry, so sorry Bellamy… I’m so sorry,” she repeats through tears. “I can’t image, I can’t believe… I am so sorry.”

“Clarke,” Bellamy pulls them both back up so he can look at her. “You don’t have anything to apologize for.” She shakers head, hair whipping around in a glorious blond halo.

“No, I…” she can’t seem to get the words out. Bellamy waits, patient. Her voice is almost too quiet to hear when she speaks next. “After Mount Weather, I swore to myself that I wouldn’t let you kill anyone else again, especially in my name. I didn’t want to have you go through that type of pain again. And because of me, exactly the opposite happened.” Bellamy nods, understanding of her wishes.

“But Clarke,” he says, “you should never feel bad about that. You know I will do anything for you, right?”

Clarke wipes her nose. “I do. And that’s… that is reason I left in the first place. I was going to tell you before, but I couldn’t admit it. I fled, because I felt awful for letting you bear the burden of killing all those innocent people in Mount Weather. And I didn’t want you to deal with it. I didn’t want you to have to do something like that again, because of me. I wanted you to transfer all of your sorrow onto me, so I could repay you for what you did.”  
  
“Bullshit,” Bellamy replies. Clarke fixes him with a challenging look. “No, I believe you,” he says, interpreting that look. “But that never would have worked. I would never stop thinking about you, Clarke. I got so mad at you, but everything I did once you left… it was still always for you. Instead of taking the blame, you left me alone with no one to turn to. No one understands what I go through but you, Clarke.”

“I am so sorry,” Clarke whispers again.

Bellamy shakes his head. “Stop that. That is all in the past.” He pulls her in for another hug. “Something else is still bothering you. Please, Clarke. I am here for you know. Don’t shut me out. What did Cason do to you?”

Clarke folds her lame leg in so she can sit more comfortably. It takes a bit, some coaxing, but at the end Bellamy gets the whole story. About Warren, his party guests, the laborious work he made her do, the sexual abuse she went through. Bellamy tries to stop her from describing in explicit detail, in concern for her well-being, but she insists on telling him everything. Bellamy’s core solidifies as he imagines all the pain he wishes to inflict upon Warren as Clarke lists what he made her do, what he did to her.

“At the end, the day before I saw you, I felt empty. I am no longer a person, just an object for entertainment, pleasure. I don’t feel like a person, Bellamy,” her voice wavers, on the verge of crying again. Bellamy doesn’t think he’s ever seen Clarke cry, especially like this.

“You’re safe now, Clarke,” he tells her. “I won’t let anything happen to you; I won’t let anyone hurt you ever again.” She sniffs, nods slightly. “Clarke, do you hear me? Nothing like that will occur ever again. Do you believe me?”

“Yes,” she says. Trust, relief, assurance, and… _love_ is so apparent in that word, Bellamy knows that Clarke believes him. He offers his hand. Clarke shakily takes it. He squeezes, she squeezes back. They stay like that for several minutes, maybe an hour, Bellamy doesn’t know. But he could have stayed like that forever, gazing into her eyes, knowing that they would always be there for one another, always be each other’s support.

But Bellamy being Bellamy, he has to be practical.

“We should probably get some sleep. We have a lot of people to see tomorrow.”

“Yes, yes we do.”

 _We._ He will never tire of her saying that to him.

He goes to sleep, feeling the best he has been since he touched the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I also finally decided that the next chapter will be the to last! It will be longer, and the long-awaited Bellarke will be achieved... or will it?? Hahahaha hmmm I wonder


	9. Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke and Bellamy finally return home.

_Lost for you, I’m so lost for you_

_Touch your lips just so I know_  
_In your eyes, love, it glows so_  
_I’m bare boned crazy for you_

_When you crash into me_

 

“It’s going to be fine,” Bellamy reassures Clarke, once again, as they step closer and closer to Camp Skai. Eventually, when they get close enough, he hears shout.

“It’s them! Guys, it’s them!”

The camp in the distance gets louder and louder, until a stampede of people storm out, all rushing to the pair. Faces, some more familiar than the rest, surround them, asking, engaging, speaking, creating so much stimulation Clarke and Bellamy aren’t sure what to do. After a minute of half-hearted hugs, smiles that almost reach their eyes, a voice sounds above the rest.

“Bell? Is that really you?”

Bellamy finally lets go of Clarke, having been keeping one arm on her waist the entire time, and he forces his way through the crowd to find his sister.

“Octavia,” he breathes, extending his arms to envelop her, when she slaps him for all she is worth.

“Ow, what the hell, O?” he asks, rubbing his cheek. She just shakes her head, then grabs his shoulders to pull him into a hug. She closes her eyes, holding his head, silent tears pouring down her face.

“I thought I had lost you,” she whispers, hugging him tighter. He is lost for words. “You were gone for months, Bellamy. Months.”

“I know,” is all he says, understanding. “But shit, now I’m going to have a mark on my cheek for hours.”

Octavia breaks apart their embrace, glaring at him. “You insult me. It should at least stay for two days.” She grins at him, while Lincoln shows up behind Octavia, placing a hand on her shoulder in silent comfort.

“I am glad you are alright,” he rumbles. Bellamy nods at him.

“When did you guys arrive at Camp Skai? I thought you were going to stay at Jaha,” Bellamy questions.

“Yeah, but then you bastards had to go missing,” Octavia says, dry humor lacing her voice.

“We got a message from Monty a couple of days after you two were supposed to return,” Lincoln fills in. “He asked for some help relating to leadership and organizing search parties.”

“Naturally, we were the best choices to lead those,” Octavia says, with a rise of her chin.

“Of course,” Bellamy agrees.

“Abby came along, and so did Jasper,” Lincoln says. “One good thing came out of your disappearance—Jasper and Monty have finally settled some differences.”

Octavia nods in agreement, but Bellamy can read on her face that some sour feelings remain between the two friends.

Octavia rubs her arm, nervous. “Bellamy, how far were you guys? None of our scouting parties could find any traces of you. We tried so hard, for so long, desperate to find any clues. I couldn’t… I failed…”

“O,” Bellamy says, bending down so he can be level with her. Her takes her face in his hands, like he did when she was little. “I know you did your best. I don’t think anyone could have found us. We were in such a far, distant land, that it would have taken weeks to travel there on foot. It took almost six days of straight horseback riding to get back,” he says.

“Six days?” Lincoln asks. “That could be at least 100 miles away,” he surmises. “Where were you, anyways?”

“Grucía,” Bellamy says, and Lincoln’s face grows stony. “You’ve heard of them?”

“I’ve heard of legends, but I thought they had been eradicated from a plague long ago. The Commander will want to hear about this,” he says. He starts to head away, when Bellamy stops him.

“I think you might want to wait to hear what I have to say before you relay any information,” he warns him. He prepares himself to tell the story of Joyce, when Octavia thrusts her chin somewhere behind Bellamy.

“I think she needs you back right now. The story can wait.” Bellamy turns around, to see Clarke shrinking into herself, hugging her small malnurited body as she gives some pats to her friends. The crowd parts as Raven Reyes limps towards her, eyes hard. When she reaches Clarke, she stays a good three feet away from her.

“I can’t believe you,” she says. “Just when we get you back, you run off again and get yourself kidnapped.” The kids surrounding them fall quiet. A smile breaks across Raven’s face. “I’m going to chain you to someone so that doesn’t happen ever again,” and she wraps Clarke in a hug. Bellamy reads Clarke’s face as they embrace, and her eyes get hazy, elsewhere, not fully in the moment of the reunion. Bellamy knows she is remembering the handcuffs, the abuse, and although Raven meant no harm, he rebukes her in his mind.

After giving a soft goodbye to Octavia and Lincoln, he walks towards Clarke, the group of welcomers finally dispersing. “Thank for the warm greeting as well,” he muses, a smirk on his face.

Raven untangles from Clarke. “Blake, you need no welcome,” she slaps his arm, playful. Laughing, she limps away as Monty approaches, Abby next to him.

“Clarke,” she sighs, reaches to touch her, but instead surveys her body from head to toe, examining her daughter. “What happened?” her voice breaks. Clarke just shakes her head, walking into her mom, finally initiating a hun her owg. It is moments like these that remind Bellamy Clarke is just a kid… she might be 19, but she still has her mom, still has that relationship to fall back on. She has others, besides him, to support her. It makes him both sad and happy to think about.

“Hey,” a voice takes him out of his stupor. It’s Monty. “We’ve missed you guys,” he says. “Not much has changed, but thank god Clarke is back, because Abby made me finally take her place as medical assistant. It’s horrible,” he admits, emitting a laugh from Bellamy. Monty quickly glances at Clarke, shaking in her mom’s arms. “But seriously, is Clarke alright? She looks really shaken up.”

“I think she will be,” he says, because he cannot be any more sure than that.

After he lets Abby and Clarke have their moment together, Bellamy returns to Clarke’s side and leads her into the camp. Miller finds them, slaps Bellamy on the back, and leads them to Bellamy’s tent, as they never officially set one up for Clarke yet.

Clarke and Bellamy set their things down, then stand in silence.

“It’s good to be back,” Bellamy finally says, a true smile on his face.

Clarke looks up at him, the emotion on her face unreadable, but undeniably happy.

“Yes, it is.”

 

* * *

 

The next day, Bellamy wakes up before Clarke does. She lays a few inches away from him, closer than she was when they fell asleep. Her mouth opens and closes with her soft snores, a hair swaying with her breaths.

He gets dressed as quietly as he can manage, then exits the tent. He joins Miller and Monty at a breakfast table, offering them a “Morning,” as he sits. They both smile, offering him some food.

“I still can’t believe it,” Miller says. Bellamy gives him a questioning look. “The two of you, you guys are crazy. In the best way possible, I mean. You guys go through Hell, several times, and always come out stronger than ever.”

Bellamy plays with his bowl of porridge. “I’m not sure about that.”

“Really? Look at those muscles, man!” Monty exclaims, who then turns red as Miller gives him a hurt look. “Oh, they aren’t as impressive as yours, Nathan, don’t worry,” he assures Miller.

Bellamy laughs at the twosome. “That’s true, Miller,” he agrees with Monty. “But it’s not me I meant. What Clarke went through, it was really tough. I can’t imagine…” he trails off.

Monty and Miller look at each other, then join hands. “I am sure we couldn’t imagine either. But at least she has you, like we have each other,” Monty says, causing Miller to blush.

Bellamy tucks his head. “Don’t say shit like that to me, people can hear you,” he grumbles. Before Miller can open his mouth, he looks back to his porridge. “Besides, after these months, I am not sure… I don’t know…”

Miller shoves his shoulder. “Hey, Blake, look at me.” He clears his throat. “I meant what I said. You guys always come out on top in the end. It might take time, but I’ve never known any people that were so desperately meant for each other.” He then looks at Monty. “Except for us, of course,” he jokes. He looks back at Bellamy. “But really. Just be there for her, as you always are. I don’t know what happened over these past months, and I won’t push for the story. But it doesn’t really matter, because you guys have each other, and now you are back.” Miller glances at some movement behind Bellamy, releases his shoulder to wave happily. Bellamy turns to see Clarke, still hugging her small frame with one arm, waving back delicately.

As Clarke approaches and sits down next to him, Bellamy takes in Miller’s words. We have each other, he thinks. He grabs some food from the middle of the table, giving it to Clarke. She gives him a smile that holds so much appreciation it makes his heart melt inside, and he tries to hold it together when Miller gives him a knowing look.

Clarke looks at the semi-unappealing breakfast, and before she can refuse it, Bellamy says softly, “Clarke, you gotta eat. It’s safe now.” She had trouble eating well on the road, and Bellamy hoped that once they returned it would be better.

She looks at her hand, avoiding both Bellamy and the food. “I don’t really feel like it,” she says.

Bellamy holds in a sigh. “Clarke, please. For me.”

Clarke worries her bottom lip. “Okay,” and she picks up the spoon, hand shaking. The porridge spills, splatters back into the bowl, getting her shirt. She stares at her hand, astonished, then drops the spoon onto the table. She slams her hands on the table, forces herself up, back straight, then runs back to the tent, unsteady on her feet. The commotion caused some bystanders to notice, and look at Bellamy with concern.

He raises a hand, assuring the spectators. He turns to Monty and Miller, who still stare at the tent Clarke disappeared into.

“Monty, please get Abby,” he tells him. He grabs Clarke’s food, then follows her footsteps.

She sits in the corner, blanket wrapped around her like a cocoon. She sits cross-legged, staring at her hands as they shake. She looks up Bellamy, eyes full of terror. “What is happening to me?” she asks him, sorrow dripping from her voice. Bellamy swallows.

“Clarke you know what is happening.” He sits down next to her, putting the bowl of porridge aside. He takes a hold of her hands. “I don’t really know what I am supposed to say here,” he admits. So instead of speaking, he pulls her hands to his lips, and kisses them. They look so small, they contrast so starkly with his dark skin, that turned even more brown over the past months, in the scorching Gruía sun.

He finally looks back up to Clarke. She stares at their hands. “I am not going to say what happened to you was no big deal. Because it was, it was a huge fucking deal. It was horrible. And I am not going to say you’ve been through worse. But you have been through things, other horrible things before.” Clarke knows what he is talking about. “We have been through other horrible things before. And together, we have overcome all odds. Clarke,” he says, “it will be alright. We will take all the time necessary, but you will be find. We will go slow,” he promises. Clarke looks at him like he just turned water into wine, like he is offering the world to her. He knows she gets just what he means from that speech. Bellamy, deep inside, desires with his whole heart to protect Clarke, to show her how much she means to him, but she needs time to recover. And he, of course, undoubtedly, is offering it to her.

“Thank you,” she says, so quiet he can barely make it out. She reaches towards the spoon again, glaring at her shaking hand as she does so. Bellamy takes her hand again.

“Let me help,” he says. He takes the spoon, scoops up from porridge, brings it to her mouth.

“I am not a child, Bellamy,” she tells him scornfully. Bellamy laughs; if she can argue with him now, he must have done something right in the past five minutes.

“Yes, I know, but humor me, I like taking care of people,” he replies. He gives her a look, and she pouts, but still opens her mouth to accept the food. When he goes to wipe some food on her lips, she slaps his hands away, wiping it herself.

“Don’t be too feisty, Clarke,” Bellamy scolds, chest jumping up and down in laughter.

“I am not people,” she says, responding to his earlier comment. Bellamy falls serious.

“Yes, I know. You are Clarke Griffin. And you don’t like being taken care of. But when you need me, I will always be there for you. Clarke, I-...” he falls off, because even after all this time, after all they’ve been through, he can’t bring himself to say those three words.

Clarke shakily reaches out, and closes the gap. She rubs his hands with her thumbs. She opens her mouth—

“Clarke? Honey? Is everything alright?” Abby walks into the tent, interrupting what Clarke was going to say. Bellamy helps Clarke onto her feet.

“Yes, it’s fine,” he says, speaking for Clarke. But of course, she does not let that happen for too long.

“Mom, I have some things to tell you.” She looks at Bellamy, and he gets it. With a squeeze of the hand, he leaves Clarke to tell something a mother never wants to hear from her daughter.

 

* * *

 

Abby is agitated, upset, angered, and any other word Bellamy can think of when she finally leaves the tent. But she remains impressively calm, as she asks to speak with Bellamy. She explains how they can help Clarke get through with what she is experiencing, and with time, she will hopefully have a one hundred percent recovery.

Six weeks later, it looks like Abby was correct. Bellamy finds himself in the medbay with the Griffins, after a nasty fall from a tree when he was trying to collect some fruit. Clarke curses him out on his clumsiness, and he takes it all in stride, grinning with pride as she deftly wraps a bandage around his arm, without the presence of any tremors. Abby cleans a wound on his leg, tsks him.

“This will need some stitches. Clarke?” Clarke looks up, surprised at her mother.

“Mom, I don’t think—”

“Nonsense. It is time you tried again. And what better patient?” Abby actually smiles at Bellamy. He thinks she finally warmed up to him when she saw how much he helped Clarke get through her episodes. He smiles back at her, agreeing.

“Are you sure?” Clarke asks, aiming the question at both Bellamy and Abby. They both nod.

“I trust you,” Bellamy tells her, all honesty.

“Here’s everything you need, I need to go radio Kane.” Abby excuses herself from the medical tent, giving Clarke a half-hug. “Call me if you need anything.”

Everything is quiet in the tent as Clarke stares at a needle in her hands.

“Bellamy, I don’t think I’m ready,” she finally says.

“Just try.”

Clarke grabs the needle, threading it with steady hands. He can see her concentration, as small beads of sweat form on her forehead line. She approaches Bellamy.

“Tell me to stop when you need,” and she turns doctor on him. It had always fascinated Bellamy to see Clarke shut off all of her surroundings at zero in on the task at hand. She pushes whatever emotions aside, all in an effort to help the person in front of her. It confuses Bellamy, but he simultaneously wishes and dreads being the person she wants to fix.

She gets through three stitches perfectly, without a waver, until Bellamy makes a mistake and mutters “ouch” under his breath once. Clarke freezes.

“Did I hurt you? I’m so sorry,” she begins, holding the needle above his body.

“It was nothing, Clarke, keep going.” She nods, and turns back to his calf.

As the needle approaches his skin this time, her hand starts shaking. She bites her bottom lip, but her the tremors worsen. Blood starts to form on her lips, the sweating intensifies.

“Clarke,” Bellamy starts.

“We need my mom. I’ll go get her,” Clarke says.

“No.”

That stops her.

Silence.

“I can’t do it Bellamy. She needs to close your wound.”

“Clarke, you can do it. By now, all of this, it is your doing, not Warren’s. Focus, and you can do it. I believe in you.”

Clarke stares at him, taking in his slightly banged up face. She nods primly, then turns back to his leg. Her hands tremble, but she forces the needle through. It is painful, but Bellamy remains quiet.

At the fifth stitch, Clarke is lost in her mind, all trembling gone. She ties Bellamy up, wraps him in some gauze, then places the needle down.

“See? I told you,” Bellamy says, admiring her work.

“I only did it because of you,” Clarke says. She stands next to his cot, covering his hand in hers. “Bellamy, I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“Sure you could have,” he insists.

“No,” she contradicts him this time. “I couldn’t have. Any of this. Bellamy, I am eternally indebted to you. And normally that would kill me, but with you, it only makes me happy.” She sits on the cot, making him bounce a bit. Bellamy holds his breath, trying not to break the spell of the moment. “Because of you, I am whole. We are a team, and when I abandoned you, you were there for me. When I pulled away, you were there for me. When I was hurt, you were there for me. Please let me spend my every waking moment now, making it up to you, and being there for you. Bellamy.” She looks up to him, her eyes the clearest he has ever seen them since she walked through the Camp Skai gates all those months ago. “I love you.”

Bellamy’s throat catches. “Princess, I think you know that I love you too.”

Clarke’s smile is everything he has ever wanted. She deftly climbs onto his lap, being careful not to hurt his leg, but Bellamy doesn’t give two shits about his leg anymore. She cradles is hips with her legs, pressing them together.

“Bellamy Blake, thank you,” she whispers as she closes the final distance between them. The taste of her lips finally against his pushes Bellamy up, to cradle her in his arms, to never let her go. Her hands glide up his back, into his hair, pulling him closer, if that is even possible, to her mouth, desperate for his touch. She is timid at first, but Bellamy’s cannot help releasing all of the tension he had been holding back the past weeks, and he kisses her hard, asking for her to open her mouth. She complies, meeting him half way between sighs of content. Eventually Bellamy gets a hold of himself and pulls away.

He brings up a hand to touch her lips, just so he can know for sure that what just happened, happened.

In her eyes, the love glows so fiercely Bellamy cannot help but smile. “I’m so crazy for you, you know that?” Clarke crashes into him, acknowledging what he just said with a soft kiss. Bellamy plays with her mouth, the rush of initial passion passed, and explores what it really means to have Clarke Griffin know you love her.

As much as it aches for him to do so, Bellamy pulls away again. “We can go slow,” Bellamy says, echoing his promise from long ago. “We don’t have to rush into anything. I won’t push you, I won’t force you—” Clarke silences him with another long kiss. She smiles at him.

“I know. I believe you.” She kisses his jaw, his neck, his freckles. Hearing her say that surges Bellamy surges to sit up straighter, savoring her touch. She hugs him, nudges her nose in the crook of his neck. “I’m so lost for you,” she whispers. “And I trust you.” She turns to touch their foreheads together, eyes closed in thought. “But thank you.” She opens her eyes, striking him with such intensity Bellamy stops breathing. Or maybe he stopped breathing a while ago, fearful of breaking this spell. “I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve you.”

Bellamy breaks the eye contact, looking to the side. “I ask myself the same question every day,” he admits.

“What, you also think you’re too good for me?”

Bellamy stares for a moment into nothing, until it clicks and he falls back, laughing. He grabs Clarke, making her fall on top of him. “Of course I do. I mean, just look at me!” She giggles (wow, he hasn’t heard that in a while), pushing up to look at him.

“You’re so full of it,” she retorts, shaking her head, as she ducks back down for another kiss.

 

* * *

 

 

A week later, Clarke leads Bellamy through the brambles, skipping over fallen branches and piles of mud.

“Dammit, Princess, where are we going?” he grumbles, swiping away another leaf that falls on his nose.

“It’s just up ahead,” Clarke promises, giddy. Just as she said, in a moment the clearing widens, and a calm, clear river appears in front of them. Clarke stops, admiring the beauty for a moment.

“What is this?” Bellamy asks, bringing her in close.

“This stream is an extension of the river that was closest to me after Mount Weather,” Clarke tells him simply. She steps away from him, tosses off her shoes, rolls up her pants sleeves, and starts to head into the river. Bellamy watches her with wonder as she turns back and gestures for him to join her.

When he wades next to her in the water, Clarke takes his hand.

“Before, when I stepped into rivers, I would conjure up an image of you.” Bellamy stays silent, knowing she will continue. “I would talk, or I guess argue with you, all the time. Even then, you wanted what was best for me, as I tried to forgive myself for what I did.” She looks up at Bellamy, who is completely doe-eyed for her. It makes her grin, even as she tells him this sad story. “I shouldn’t have left, I know that now. I couldn’t make the nightmares go away on my own. I needed you. I have always needed you,” she admits.

“Just to guide you,” Bellamy corrects. “You don’t need me completely. You can handle anything by yourself.”

“Maybe,” Clarke says. “But I would much rather face whatever it is, with you.” She stands on her toes, meeting his lips with hers, relishing in the cold water that passes by them, cleansing them, renewing them.

At that moment, Clarke feels light again. She can feel the subdued pain of Mount Weather, of Cason, of Warren, washing away in the river. She will never forget any of it, but she won’t let it hold her down any longer. She has many more events to look forward to, and Bellamy to always count on.

Finally, she washed all her demons away. Finally, life truly returned to Clarke.

She pulls away from Bellamy, who always has that look of disbelief whenever they kiss, like he thinks he will wake up from a dream. And in his eyes, Clarke can see a life that is undeniably worth chasing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, that's it! I hope you enjoyed my first fanfiction! It was very fun (and hard) to write ^-^


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